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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29902443">The Graceful Art of Falling Apart</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphrasie/pseuds/euphrasie'>euphrasie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brief Will/OMC, Cannibalism, Character Study, Daddy Issues, Depression, Drinking to Cope, Explicit Sexual Content, Hallucinations, Intrusive Thoughts, Loneliness, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Regret, Rough Sex, Scar Worship, Self-Hatred, Will Graham Helps Himself, Will is a Mess, Will talks to himself a lot, eventual murder husbands</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:47:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>33,941</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29902443</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphrasie/pseuds/euphrasie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been exactly ten days since they had discharged him from the hospital. Out of the haze of the heavy morphine, reality sunk into his bones and a depression fell over him. He refused entry to any visitors apart from Abigail, who sat long haired and gaunt by his side as he tried to piece together the reality of his betrayal. Unwinding his brain from the high temples of Hannibal’s office; revisiting their final meeting from all angles, and coming up short every time.</p><p>___</p><p> </p><p>  <i>After the events of Mizumono, Will decides against finding Hannibal and instead returns to the house his father died in, some three years earlier.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>94</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>348</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So uh I had a fic completely outlined and ready to write before I realised I do not vibe at all writing in Hannibal’s POV so I’m just going to pretend it doesn’t exist for the time being. Then this came out of nowhere, but I quite like it and I hope you do too :)</p><p>Also this is pretty angsty, but um, it does get better?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The grocery bags left deep red impressions in the bends of Will’s fingers and all the way up the length of his forearms as he stacked them haphazardly, weighted heavily with unnecessary junk. He’d been a little enthusiastic as he’d wandered through the aisles, throwing anything in the cart that struck his fancy, aware of the dogs still in the back of the truck, equally aware that he had left the engine running to keep the air conditioning blowing cool for his pack. The walk across the parking lot with the heavy weights was made worse by the enduring heat, curls sticking wet to his hairline by the time he was leaning against the truck and dumping the bags onto the backseat.</p><p>He made his way into the front, rubbing at his numb wrists until sensation returned. Abigail was in the passenger seat, bare arms sprawled up against the window, long limbs up on the dashboard as she tapped a finger to the slim watch on her wrist. She’d been waiting for him a while. He forgot how much slower things ran down here, like stepping back in time, thoroughly absorbed in the Bible Belt of his childhood. He’d told himself he would never come back, and yet— </p><p>“Did you get soda?”</p><p>“I got the soda.” He smiled at her, feeling himself relax as he melted into the driver’s seat. He called out to the dogs, humming in relief at the chorus of barks he received in return.</p><p>It had been exactly ten days since they had discharged him from the hospital. Weeks in a coma, a month recovering. Out of the haze of the heavy morphine, reality sunk into his bones and a depression sank heavy over him like a lead cloud. He refused entry to any visitors apart from Abigail, who sat long haired and gaunt by his side as he tried to piece together the reality of his betrayal. Unwinding his brain from the high temples of Hannibal’s office; revisiting their final meeting from all angles and coming up short every time.</p><p>Jack wasn’t dead. Neither was Alana, although he’d heard through a pair of gossiping nurses that her condition wasn’t great. He tried to care, but found it hard. The bright spark of affection he’d had for her had diminished in the wake of his trial and release. Once discharged, he went home. He sat in his little house surrounded by dogs, starved of his attention and clingy now that he had returned to them. </p><p>“I can’t stay here any longer,” he’d said to Winston, his blonde head firmly in Will’s lap. His dark eyes had blinked up at Will, a small whine vibrating through Will’s thigh where he rested. </p><p>“What are you going to do?” Abigail had asked, arms crossed in front of her. Standing in front of him as he remained bundled on the ground, despair so heavy in his chest it was hard to breathe. “Where are we going to go?”</p><p>Three years ago his father had died from a heart attack that took him in the early hours. At the time Will was just teaching, cowering in his classroom, acerbic to anyone who ventured close, walls so strong it took Crawford and his bulldozing sense of justice to break them down. Will had never been close with his father, although through an unspoken agreement they insisted on stilted conversations every birthday and holiday, but Will hadn’t visited home in a long time. His sense of duty as a son with a stable income and no need for material possessions had been to purchase a house for his father. A cheap little Creole cottage that kept his dad stationary for the first time in decades, stopped him having to worry as he got older. An apology for the burden Will was certain he had been, a little boy with a broken mind that had sent his mother packing the moment he was born and his father at an absolute loss. After his death, Will hadn’t stopped the monthly payments and never had the inclination to sell. Penance to himself, he was certain, or maybe just another way for him to bury his head in the sand.</p><p>But he had nowhere else to go, so it was back to Louisiana. He’d packed the car up the same night he’d decided, crammed the dogs into the back of his car. They made little fuss; glad that wherever he was going, they were going with him. He had enough money for a while, never spent what he’d earned, and had a decent compensation from the fallout of his incarceration. He paid in cash for a larger truck in a motel parking lot outside Tennessee, wide enough for the bigger dogs in the back. He prised his phone apart and crushed the GPS, throwing the broken shards in the trash of the first gas station stop. He dumped his warm clothes for sunglasses, tossed his heavy sweater for a multipack of thin cotton shirts and felt the change, the slide backwards into some old skin long-shed as he drove back into the hell he’d wanted to leave behind all those years ago.</p><p>He’d driven to the small town trying his damn hardest to forget the interim of his life; where cop became teacher became special agent became criminal became redeemed became bait became darkness became half dead on the ground, drowning on his own fucking blood. <i>Put your head back, close your eyes, and wade into the quiet of the stream.</i> Abigail’s pulse weakening under his fingers. Hannibal’s hand on his face, his hand in his hair, holding him close as Will spilled everything out between their feet.</p><p>“This is so quaint and fucked up!” Abigail said, alive and vibrant, jolting him from the state he’d put himself in, knuckles white over the steering wheel. When he looked towards her, her throat was bare, not even the first scar that her father had given her lining the hollow of her throat. “A fresh start?”</p><p>Pulling up into the drive filled his stomach with dread, even if the dogs were antsy in the back. He got out, half-baked in the wet heat. Right before a thunderstorm was due, he’d bet. God, he wouldn’t forget the cloying atmosphere he’d been born into. His dogs spilled out once he released them, excitedly sniffing the grounds, adhering to his whistle when they trotted toward the sidewalk. There was a beat-up car parked under the shelter. On closer inspection, it was a rusted shell and little else. His dad had liked to tinker with engines more than drive them. </p><p>It had come to him with a striking clarity that he had kept at bay the entire drive down that this was very house his father had died in. Technically, he had died face down on the front porch, but <i> semantics </i> Will told himself. This was his house, and he’d died by the side of it all the same. He unlocked the front door with the key he’d bought from home, breathing in the empty staleness. </p><p>It was a small and plain, a living room to the left of the front door, with more clutter than he could ever imagine his father indulging in. Stacks of books on a heaving bookcase, a TV so old and dusty it was likely broken from before his death. A battered armchair of yellow, sunken cushions impressing the shape of his father’s weight. A wireless radio stacked to the side of the chair. No couch. A pathology Will inherited. A small desk for lures set up similar to Will’s. A portable fan, grey fluff caught in the blades. He looked around as the dogs busied themselves exploring the small house. He left the room, noticed a small tiled bathroom. Sink dirty from lack of use, a river of rust leaking from tap to the drain. A bathtub just a filthy, a shower with broken water pressure, Will could almost guarantee it. </p><p>From the front door he could see straight down into the kitchen, which was the open mouth of the house. A back door that led out to a sizeable and thankfully fenced backyard; grass and weeds in direness of paring back. He walked through, shopping bags in hand and opened the back door, calling for calm as the dogs rushed past in a fluffy stream, the softness of their tails as they brushed past his legs, excitement after hours on the road with just an overnight motel stay as a rest. He turned to the kitchen and flinched; remembering Hannibal’s kitchen; killing Hobb’s in his own. Cooking Randall, and all those evenings watching Hannibal cook for him; the intimacy of it all. Sitting in the chair off to the side when exhaustion beyond words hit, listening to him talk, wondering if it was normal that his mind shut off into the calm seduction. By the end, he couldn’t be sure who was seducing who anymore.</p><p>In contrast, the kitchen was a flimsy beige thing compared to the grandeur of Hannibal’s townhouse. Just enough cupboard space for the necessities. A refrigerator that had sat empty and off for years. He turned it on and heard the buzz of life as it kick-started, his palm resting on the door. There was a square white table in the centre of the room, a pair of chairs tucked over two sides. Will ran the taps; heard the ache and gurgle of the pipes as water trickled through for the first time in years. He let it run, looking out through the back door to see his dogs making themselves at home. There’d been a narrow staircase opposite the living room, leading up to the one bedroom. He wasn’t ready to face it just yet.</p><p>The house needed work. Probably had long before his father’s death, but they’d lived nowhere permanently before, and his father no doubt cared for aesthetics. Thankfully, they were too close to neighbours for it to become a squat, but wallpaper had peeled in the humidity; the stale scent of dust had collected and there were problems with damp on several of the walls. The floorboards looked as if they’d never been in a state worthy of being bared, speckled with paint and enough loose nails that he was nervous for the 28 paws that would occupy the place. </p><p>“This place is an actual dump, Will,” Abigail said beside him, hopping up onto one of the kitchen counters by the sink. The hiss of the soda tab pinging open in her hand, her easy sigh as she swallowed it down. He smiled at her, eyes on her throat, cut and scarred over twice as harsh in the light. </p><p>“You should’a seen the dumps we landed in sometimes.” Will reached for his own soda, pulling apart the box to grab it and took a seat at the table. At his feet, the dogs ambled in and flopped over the tiles, overexcited in their investigations; worn out from the long drive, taking shelter from the overwhelming humidity outside. “One time we were in this in this goddamn trailer in the middle of… God, I can’t remember. I was ten. Caught a leak right over my bed, fixed it shut with tape until it broke every other night.”</p><p>“Will, why are we here?” Abigail broke through his rambling, looking over at him from across the sad white room. She was so real, like flesh and bones and blood. </p><p>“I need to fix things.” He pressed the side of his can to his face, but it was room temperature and did nothing to cool him down. He wondered briefly where <i> he </i> was before he told himself he didn’t care. <i>He left us for dead.</i> </p><p>“He wanted us alive,” Abigail reminded him, sipping from her soda, eyebrow cocked, fading in the bright sun shining from the window behind her. </p><p>Will snorted into his can as he took a sip. “Keep telling yourself that.”</p><p>That night he creeped up the narrow staircase which housed a small bedroom. The bed was made up in pale blue sheets turned grey with dust, an old metal bedframe holding the whole thing up. The severity made it look like a hospital bed, which reminded Will of his bed in the BSHCI; stained mattress, creaking metal springs poking through. He blinked the thoughts away; the images dissolving behind his eyes. The room was simple otherwise. A pine wardrobe that housed the bare minimum of clothes that Will couldn’t bring himself to look through. He forced himself to open the nightstand, eyes drawn down to a well-thumbed pocket bible. Ironic, considering his dad wasn’t much of a believer. He opened it and a handful of photographs fell out; mostly of Will. One baby photo, one of the two of them holding a big catch, one of Will looking miserable on the back of a horse. Another of a young woman, dark hair curling to her shoulders, pretty features. His mother. A familiar tugging ache in his chest as he thought to the abandonment before he blinked it away.</p><p>By the time night came, he couldn’t face climbing into his father’s bed. He stripped the mattress, pulled it down to the floor and slept there, one hand tracing over where Hannibal had split him open, scar fresh and red. He fell asleep, dogs curled up around him, nuzzling close for familiarity.  </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div>The beauty of Wolf Trap had been the solitude. Will had forgotten that nothing spreads through small towns quicker than gossip. He’d always been the new kid at school, they’d always been the outsiders in every town. That first day it hadn’t gone nine-thirty before neighbours came knocking. He opened the door to a cluster of middle-aged faces, watching them count the amount of dogs and then marvel at how well behaved they were when Will drew them behind him with a whistle. They’d soon miss the free run they had back home, but he would take them out eventually, go off the beaten track; find somewhere to fish and for them to play. Once they acclimatised to the heat and he figured out what the hell he was actually doing back here.<p>“This was my dad’s house,” Will said, biting back the thought that really it was his house. The mortgage was in his name, Christ, he still paid the water bill.</p><p>“Your daddy died some years back, son,” Jim from across the street said. Will refused to look into his eyes and barely shook his hand when it was offered. He was broad, skin ruddy across his forearms and what Will peaked at from beneath the cap. Beside him, his wife held a jug of iced tea, the cubes of ice melting in the sun.</p><p>“Yeah,” he answered eventually, forcing a smile. “I was working away. Only just had the chance to come back.”</p><p>“You thinking of selling?”</p><p>“Not sure,” Will said. Words were tricky, and he felt caught between reinvention and regression. The questions were never-ending and he could see the gossip taking shape. Young man. Single. Too many dogs. Cagey. No eye contact. In need of a wife; one of their daughters maybe, or even a niece to straighten him out.</p><p>Jim’s wife - “it’s Dora, please” - handed him the jug of tea even when he declined, told him to have a nice day and he watched the small group leave, the soft murmurings of their open conversation obvious even if he couldn’t pick out the words. He walked back into the house, kicking the door shut behind him, and poured the drink down the sink. He couldn’t stomach the stuff since eighth grade, where he puked a gallon up at a birthday party he’d been forced to attend. The resignation on his father’s face when he collected him not an hour after dropping him off had been obvious. </p><p>He spent the afternoon at the closest hardware store once he was certain the dogs would settle happily in the cool quiet of the kitchen, and once he realised that no other neighbours were coming knocking for the time being. This time Abigail came with him, elbow to elbow, as he wandered up and down every aisle. Pushing the cart as he went, ears on the faded hits of his childhood playing through the overhead speakers. He piled paint, tools, a floor sander and wallpaper stripper, anything that he thought might be vaguely useful. He paid on a credit card, wondered whether he should use cash, but he wasn’t on the run. If they wanted to find him, they could, but he knew that until Jack recuperated, then no one would come looking for him until they were out of options.</p><p>“How long before they call a 5150 on your ass?” Abigail asked, as Will swept his fingers over the coarse display of sandpaper. Behind him, a worker pushed a heavy cart stacked with pallets. He watched them slide past with a huff before fixing his eyes on Abigail.</p><p>“5150’s don’t exist outside of California.” He brushed his knuckles against the sandpaper, just to feel the friction. It didn’t hurt, but he appreciated the impression all the same. “I’m just here to fix up the house and… we’ll figure out the rest.”</p><p>“You’re certifiable. Everyone can see it,” she teased, fading as he made his way to the checkout.</p><p>He went home to the dogs and set to work, pulling nails from the floorboards until his fingers bled. It was easier to go back. Past Quantico, past Crawford and Alana and Hannibal and Hobbs. Past angels and beasts and the BSHCI and everything apart from his dad and the simple life they had led together. </p><p>The simple monotony of the work had Will slipping back and remembering. He hadn’t felt loved, but there’d been no abuse, or nothing that he would consider abuse. He’d been the product of a brief affair between two incompatible people who had split the same night he’d been conceived, and despite his father’s offer of marriage, his mother had declined and had remained as interested in him then as she was now. He pulled nail after nail as the footage of his formative years played on and on behind his eyes.</p><p>He stopped to feed the dogs, laughing when they jumped up around his feet; affectionate even in the face of his despair. It had always been easier to care for them rather than himself. He watched them eat before he moved to the cluttered living room, sitting down beside his father’s chair on the floor, two fingers of whiskey sitting heavy in the glass beside him. As they finished eating, the dogs wandered into the room, settling around him.</p><p>“I poured his ashes into the Biloxi river. I don’t know if he had any friends, no one came to his funeral” he said aloud, looking at the heaving row of books in the living room, covered with dust. It was the room he avoided the most, somehow he felt so much of his father’s spirit still existing in the square walls of the room. Abigail didn’t answer as he spoke, she just laid on the ground beside him, blood pouring and pouring out from her neck, spluttering her last breath over and over. His eyes drew downwards, watching her exposed windpipe flutter like gills.</p><p>He took a shower, head spinning with the whiskey and limited food. He pulled splinters from his palms and the tips of his fingers, the weak water pressure soft over the nape of his neck. His eyes blurred and skimmed the raise skin over his abdomen. He touched the scar, watched blood bloom and roll in rivets down his stomach, opening up wider and wider, until he wasn’t sure if it was real or imagined. He went to bed early, exhausted from the physicality of his day, curled up on the floor of his father’s bedroom.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div>Will was back in a giant superstore some two days later, out of the limited clothes he had purchased on the drive down. He drove past three small towns and into the outskirts of the nearest city, just so he wouldn’t bump into anyone mildly curious about who he was and what he was doing. He walked the wide aisles alone. He’d never been shopping so often as he had the last few days, but the emptiness put him in a trancelike state, was almost soothing in its absolute numbness. He purchased patterned shirts in tropics and flowers because they were thin, breathable, and so far from flannel and plaid that he’d wrapped himself up in  ordinarily. He bought a cluster of drinking bowls for the dogs and sunscreen and insect repellent, bottled water because he wasn’t convinced about what was coming through the taps. He bought fresh fruit and stacks of frozen dinners because he had eaten nothing substantial in days and knew he’d have to force something down eventually.<p>There was a liquor store across the parking lot, and he stumbled his way through the doors, dropping eye contact when the cashier called out a friendly greeting. He bought mid-range bourbon. A bottle of Cazadores to go with the bag of limes. His mouth fumbled before his brain caught up at the checkout as he asked for a pouch of Amber Leaf. His dad’s favoured brand. He remembered watching him roll a handful every morning, always with a spare tucked behind his ear. Remembered being able to lick the paper once, to seal the roll-up, remembered it with a clarity he’d since forgotten. God, he’d forgotten so much. Almost forgot what his own father looked like.</p><p>“You don’t even smoke,” Abigail said, as he stepped out the store. “And you don’t forget a face with that eidetic memory, stop pretending.”</p><p>“Dad used to get me to buy ‘em on my way back from school. Or I’d steal them if we didn’t have the cash. One time I tried smoking in front of him and he slapped me so hard I saw stars.”</p><p>“How old were you?”</p><p>“Eleven.”</p><p>“It didn’t stick?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>His dad lit his cigarettes with matches rather than a lighter, and never inside the house. He always kept his cigarette tin on the kitchen counter, or the windowsill. Will put the pouch of tobacco on the table next to a box of matches. He spent twenty minutes rolling cigarettes, filing them into the rusted tin he had found, and gasping into his hands when his distress finally overwhelmed him.</p><p>That same night he sat in his garden with a large glass of Cazadores in hand, eyes up at the stars. He’d rolled a cigarette for his supper, tried to smoke it and remembered how badly he took to the vice, crushing it out beneath his foot with his lungs burning. Still, he looked up at the veil of stars overhead, listened to the far-out noises of the bayou. </p><p>“Wolf Trap was the only place that felt like home, but I felt at ease in my own skin around him. First time that ever happened. Felt good. Felt peaceful. Ironic considering the end… not very peaceful, was it? Maybe… Maybe it was for you…”</p><p>“You’re so fucking drunk,” Abigail said in the chair beside him on the porch. At their feet the dogs were settled for the night, heads down on their paws as Will suddenly stood up, head up at the sky. </p><p>“Hope he’s having a good <i>fucking</i> time. Hope they catch him. Hope he kills them all,” he said, burning up. Swallowing more tequila, just for the taste, for the way it made him burn up.</p><p>“You’re pathetic, you know that, right?” Abigail’s words were wet. He could almost smell the blood as she sputtered between gasping coughs.</p><p>“And you’re not real,” he said, neck aching as he cranked it higher and higher.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div>After a week, he tried to pull himself together. With all the work that needed doing on the house, drinking tequila every night and sleeping on a poor mattress on his father’s floor was doing Will no favours. He couldn’t bring himself to sleep in the bed. Too intimate and too troubling. Thought about his lonely father, who never married, never connected with Will, never wanted to. He tried to break his spiralling depression by throwing himself back into fixing up the house. He forced himself to eat the frozen meals, drove out until he found a decent spot to take the dogs out for a run. Fixed himself a routine.<p>He said hello to Dora and Jim every time they passed. He met more people who came to visit, to offer their condolences, even if he was almost certain they hadn’t been friendly with his father. No one recalled him from the business that made national news last year <i>that guy that didn’t kill all those people.</i> Jack hadn’t shown up, which meant he must still be recovering, which meant Will still had time.</p><p>“I was a crier,” Will told Abigail over breakfast. Breakfast was not something he had considered before Hannibal. <i>Our first meal together was breakfast. </i> He wanted to keep the habit up; his current run of good habits now included cereal and black coffee that left him with a jittery ache and a foul aftertaste in his mouth. Reminded him of Hannibal, of how nothing had tasted as good as the coffee he made; tweaked for Will’s taste. Always so accommodating to Will’s needs. </p><p>“A crier.”</p><p>“Yeah. Didn’t know how to switch my fucking head off, just kept absorbing everyone around me. The nightmares have been with me as long as I can remember. Dad just wanted me to man up, but I didn’t know how.” </p><p>“You got better for a while. It wasn’t so bad with Hannibal.”</p><p>“It just rerouted. Our little obsession was always going to spill over into something else.”</p><p>“Obsession,” Abigail hummed, bright eyes staring flat across the table at him, her double-scarred throat bare and harsh in the morning sunlight. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”</p><p>“Yes.” He gritted his teeth against the burnt coffee, averting his gaze from her. “That’s what we’re calling it.”</p><p>Will drove into the little town, parked up outside a large thrift store, and sat in the car for twenty minutes, trying to force himself to peel his hands from the wheel and unclip his seatbelt. <i>My name is Will Graham. I am thirty-five years old. I survived. Stop hating yourself for five minutes and buy yourself a goddamn bed. </i></p><p>Will knew towns like this like the back of his hand. Already he was known as Mr Graham to Dora and Jim across the street; Will to the kid that delivered the paper. He was a young man, relatively nice looking, <i>single.</i> He could hear the gossip about him, real or inventive, they’d all be fixing to find him a nice girl to talk to as if that would solve all of his issues. </p><p>“Mr Graham’s son?” The lady said, her hair orange and permed, her nails too long and a pearly pink. He stared at them, rather than her face. In all honesty, he found her accent as comforting as it was uncomfortable. Reminded him too much of his life all those years ago, his own accent not dissimilar until he’d trained himself out of it. “I’m Jill. How can I help?”</p><p>He tried to keep to himself, but Jill followed him around. She smelled like powdered roses, like a grandmother, if Will was presumptuous enough to know what a grandmother smelled like. He found a bed among the clutter; a wooden pine frame, with a relatively new mattress thrown in, and he paid for it quietly, his glasses pressed down over his nose. He had to push them up, lashing blinking wet with sweat and maybe something else. Jill’s son Carter came through the back, helped Will dismantle the bed to fit in the back of his truck. He tried engaging Will, tried talking about bars and girls and what life up in Maryland was like when Will said he’d moved down from there, but Will couldn’t keep it up. His tongue dried up, stuck to the top of his mouth until Jimmy rubbed his hands together awkwardly and let Will go off on his own.</p><p>There was a sense of unfurling relief once he was back at the house. He parked under the covered driveway, let the dogs pile out of the house in excitement as he unlocked. Abigail followed them out, watching Will load his arms up with the dismantled parts of the bed.</p><p>“How badly did it go?” She asked.</p><p>“As well as expected.”</p><p>“How long before they realise how fucked up you are?”</p><p>“Not long,” he sighed, eyeing her once before looking away.</p><p>Will broke up the old bed; put the metal frame in the back of the car and dumped the mattress in the backyard. He was sweating by the end and moved to pull his shirt off. All he saw was Hannibal’s fucking smile placed over the centre of his body. Marked for life. Ownership. He put his shirt back on, hiding it from view, and drank bottled water, wiping at his brow as a sucked in deep breaths. His dogs stayed huddled together in the cool kitchen, aside from Winston, who followed Will from room to room. </p><p>With the bedroom empty of a bed, he saw that the wooden cladding on the walls needed repainting. Blue maybe. They were an earthy brown right now. Will wanted to lighten the place up, making it pretty. Worthy of something better than himself, or his dad. Just so it could be something new.</p><p>Right now though, his priority was a bed that was higher than the floor. He’d sanded the frame down, clearing the cheap orange varnish from the pine. Painted it white and left it to dry for three days. He slept beside it on the new mattress, dogs by his feet, Abigail lurking in the shadows of his mind. </p><p>Once he’d painted the frame and varnished the wood, he fixed it together. It was tricky with only his own pair of hands, but worth it for the ache it set in his muscles, distracting his thoughts. By the time the bed frame was together, the new mattress replaced and bedding rolled on fresh from the plastic wrapping, it almost felt like something worth resting on. He took a seat on the bed, frowning at the ache in the wood, the creak of the springs.</p><p>“Good job you don’t have neighbours,” Abigail teased, scarf over her throat and long hair tied up. This time she wasn’t covered in blood, but looked almost as she had in the time before his encephalitis swallowed his rationality. Young and vulnerable. Before her life had been so thoroughly ruined by the men who were supposed to protect.</p><p>“I could take it apart again, try to sand it down.”</p><p>“But is there really any point?” She asked, and he stilled, thoughts emptying from his head as his chest felt heavy with a weight he seemed to have swallowed. By the time he looked over to where she had been standing, the space was empty.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> **** </p>
</div>On the nights he didn’t succumb to tequila fuelled dazes, he’d stay up late in the kitchen, head in his hands as he built up his memory palace. Outside. The outside was easiest. The stream out back behind Wolf Trap. He filled it with the sounds of his dogs roaming the long grass in the spring; the distant and vague sound of his father’s voice calling to him; <i>“Son, look up at the stars for me...”</i><p>Abigail sat on the bank beside the riverbed, plucking weeds with her long hair burning auburn in the sun. She stood up as he approached her, eyes looking across the stream to the tall building just visible. A few hundred metres away stood Hannibal’s house. Will had built up the outside and lingered by the doors most nights, too scared to step inside. Tonight was the first night he was strong enough to push the doors wide open and take it further. </p><p>“Do you think he’s waiting for us?” Abigail asked, walking beside him. Somehow, they were in Hannibal’s office, and not his house. Will rolled with his mind’s design, stepping further inwards. “Wherever he is?”</p><p>“He’ll be in Palermo. The foyer to his own memory palace is a chapel there. He told me about it. He thinks I’m going to go to him. Even after everything he’s done,” Will said, half in a daze. He looked down at their feet, saw the skull engraved on the floor just as Hannibal had described to him. He circled the mark, the dark wooden floor creaking as he took his steps. His fingertips grazed the edge of Hannibal’s desk. He missed this place, missed it, and absorbed the heavy ache in his chest as he rebuilt every memory he remembered having here. Until he moved outwards, tracing the bookshelves. His fingers trailed over the bookshelves, dust clinging to his fingertips as he brushed the pads of his fingers against leather-bound books. </p><p>He could see them both now; Hannibal watching him as Will paced and paced, mouth running wild as it did <i>back then. </i> He got a real good look at the inside of Will’s broken head; the darkness seeping into the long worn cracks and Will let him, over and over. And he’d cracked Will a little further, just to give him a nudge, but it had been always there, hadn’t it? Waiting dormant for the perfect opportunity. Hobbs killed those girls. He deserved to die. Will would stand by that until his death. Randall too. They <i>deserved</i> to die. </p><p>“You want to go to him.” Abigail was still beside him, her voice rattling around inside his head as the images slipped. They moved from his office in a flash, briefly falling into their favoured seats in Hannibal’s dining room, the scent of the herb wall fragrant and fresh, and then a jolt into the kitchen where Hannibal had left them to die, before they were back on the grassy bank just beside the creek behind his old house. His chest ached with panic, threatening to collapse inward. He heard the distant sound of Winston’s whine, something wet lapping at his knuckles.</p><p>“If I’d have gone with him like he wanted, it wouldn’t have worked. I was too… he was too... We were living in a dream world together, but it wouldn’t be reality. What he wanted me to become was beyond anything rational.”</p><p>“He wanted us all together,” Abigail whispered. She was so close he could imagine her breath puffing against his bare arm. So real he could hardly believe that he’d actually seen her zipped up to her death in the body bag that night Hannibal had abandoned them to their fates. “We would have been happy with him.” </p><p>“Where would we go?”</p><p>“Wherever he is now. We could find him, you know? If you explained—”</p><p>“Stop!” Will’s hands closed over his face, the clench in his stomach only elevated by the tugging of his hair. It stung, but that was better than the intrusive thoughts that were so suffocating he couldn’t work out what was right, or what he wanted, or what his plan had been in the first place. When he blinked himself back to reality, Winston’s head was resting on his lap and Abigail was nowhere in sight. Will sat in the darkness of his dead father’s kitchen and wept.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sometimes when he was feeling brave, or had enough liquid confidence burning his throat, Will would take the slow walk through his mind. Past the creek behind his old house, past Abigail and the dogs. Beyond his father, who was distant and unseen, toward the tall townhouse perched the other side of the river. He crossed it, pushed open the heavy doors to find himself back in that office.</p>
<p>Hannibal would sit in his favoured chair in a suit of black pinstripes. Will had thought him striking in it, it had stood out among the endless grey checks and plaid. He’d seen the difference in them plain as day when he wore that suit more than any other, found Hannibal’s wealth and ease in the world vulgar, a jealousy that burned acidic down into his stomach. Or maybe that was still the whiskey.</p>
<p>They didn’t speak. Or Hannibal didn’t. He sat in the chair opposite, not quite human. A glaze over his skin, like fine marble smoothing out the creases that Will knew existed. His long limbs folded together with ease, his eyes sparkling in that way they often did when their conversation caught on something he found intriguing. The gentlest tilt of his head. Will had understood too little during their original sessions together; too wrapped up in death and panic and the shards of his rapidly deteriorating mental health. But the beauty was in how Will remembered everything, how it was shining with clarity and throwing light on what had previously been concealed. Now he sat and watched, pulled apart the way Hannibal had looked at him back then, back when he was plotting and Will was spiralling and—</p>
<p>“I trusted you,” he said, eyes fixed on the man in front of him. “What fucked you up so bad that you became this?”</p>
<p>“Would it make you feel better to consider me so deeply traumatised to the point of my own becoming? Or is it simply the trust I broke between us that hurts more than my savagery?”</p>
<p>“I taught enough about the Ripper to understand your pathology,” Will shrugged, dropping the accusation. It was always so easy to bear the truth around Hannibal. </p>
<p>“Yes. You forgave the Ripper long before I set you free. More importantly, you understood it.”</p>
<p>“To a point.” He licked his lips, fingers curled over the leather arms of the chair, short nails digging in. It was so real, even if it wasn’t. He could smell the room; heavy leather, dust from the books, polished floorboards, ash settling in the fireplace. “I accepted the cannibalism. I understood why. Maybe not how it began, but I think it relates somehow to family. Your family.”</p>
<p>“You saw no issue in joining me at the table. What you’re not sure you can forgive is what I did to you that night, or what I did to Abigail.” Hannibal’s eyes were almost black, reflecting something that Will couldn’t quite see. It made his heart skip, fingers digging tighter to what he imagined was the leather chair. </p>
<p>“I think I forgive you for everything.” So much easier to say the truth to Hannibal in his mind, rather than if he was standing there in front of him. “She’d sealed her fate by remaining alive the day her father tried to kill her. I just want to understand you. Who are you?”</p>
<p>“Notice how you reframe it as <i> the day her father tried to kill her </i> thereby removing yourself from the violence. <i> You </i> orphaned her, Will. No one else.” It hung in the air between them, dark and rooted and obvious. “Do you truly wish to know who I am, Will? Or are you mourning the role I played in your life?”</p>
<p><i> “‘A clutch for balance.’”</i> Will fumbled the words aloud. He placed the familiarity in the conversation regarding his feelings for Alana, but it felt like such a long time ago and surreal. How mixed up he had become along the way, how mixed up and turned out Hannibal had made him. The Hannibal in front of him flickered, the stripes of his suit waving as he shifted. </p>
<p>“Yes, that’s right.” Hannibal said, in the confines of Will’s warped mind, alive and bright. Dark eyes burning even when Will felt himself spiraling back to reality on the sanded floor beside his father’s chair, fingernails split and bleeding as they dug tight into the boards.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div>The wallpaper came off with a little hard graft. Will was almost disappointed, although the strain in his muscles was soothing against the constant dredging of his brain. He spoke to Abigail, who he knew no longer existed, but she was so present and it was a comfort he lent himself. He was allowed one, he told himself, just one ghost to live beside him.<p>If he was losing it, the dogs didn’t seem too concerned. He fed them; he took them out during the coolest parts of the day. He ate food heated up in the microwave that he couldn’t seem to taste. He tried not to drink too much, but if he didn’t drink then the tears would come and that was… he didn’t like falling to that level. So he threw himself into fixing up the house, papering over his emotions, grouting the thoughts that lingered. Ignoring the dissociations that had him losing hours of the night to the confines of his Memory Palace.</p>
<p>“Well,” Abigail said to him, hands on her hips, watching him scrape the last piece of hideous faded floral paper from the hallway. It fell to the floor in a curled up slither of brown and yellow. “What are you going to do with it now?”</p>
<p>“Anaglypta,” Will said, thinking of the rolls they had purchased on his first trip. “Paint it yellow. Soft, like butter. Make it nice and light.”</p>
<p>“Whatever you say,” Abigail said, stepping out of the way as he dropped to his knees to pick up the paper shed from the wall.</p>
<p>A hearty knock at the front door had him scrambling to his feet again. The dogs sprung to action, desperate to meet someone new. Now that they had Will back and knew he wasn’t going anywhere, it was clear they were more than a little bored with him. He sent them to the back of the house with a sense of dread in his stomach. The eager friendliness of the surrounding community made his stomach ache. He didn’t want it. Wanted to be left the hell alone. Will wished that his father’s house was somewhere as deserted as Wolf Trap, with not a neighbour in sight. Why had he purchased his father a house on a road that housed neighbours? Why not a trailer in the middle of fucking nowhere like all the other desolate places they had lived during his childhood. </p>
<p>Will opened the front door once he’d shut the dogs away, wiping his damp hands on his jeans. It surprised him to see Jill from the thrift store standing plump in front of him, a casserole dish in her hand, covered in a layer of cling wrap. He stood in the doorway, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, hating the kindness that was radiating from her. Not deserved. He killed. He ate a man up with the Chesapeake Ripper by his side and wanted to run the hell away with him. </p>
<p>“Just something to say sorry for your loss. It’s my own recipe, crawfish etouffee,” she said, handing over the dish and looking behind him through the open door, no doubt expecting an invitation. Kindness always came with a helping of distinct nosiness, he’d discovered over the years.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” he said, not meeting her eyes even when they slid to his face. He wondered what she saw there, why whatever she saw didn’t have her running in the opposite direction, casserole dish clutched tight to her chest. Will killed a man. Loved the power. Hated the guilt. “The house isn’t suitable for guests right now.”</p>
<p>She nodded her head in understanding, although disappointment glinted through. He could pick up on it. “Jim says your thinking of selling?” Of course Jill knew Jim, who lived across the street with Dora. It wasn’t just paranoia but acknowledgment of how small towns thrived off gossip. </p>
<p>“Probably.” This was his father’s house. It had never been his, but already he was filling it with his own ghosts, polluting it with his own darkness. Better to leave before he tainted everything with it. “Someone deserves to live here. It’ll be nice enough when I’m finished.”</p>
<p>“My husband and I are throwing a party in our backyard next Saturday. You ought’a come. Meet the neighbours properly.” His stomach clenched at the idea. Will didn’t want to meet the neighbours. He wanted to hole up with his dogs and the hallucination of his dead surrogate daughter and forget the world existed for a bit longer. Wanted to sink into his head and seek Hannibal out. Hold him to account, speak to him, hate him, understand him. Threaten him with death, knowing he could never go through with it.</p>
<p>“Okay,” he said. He could hear Abigail’s derisive laugh from behind, but he didn’t react. Held onto the casserole as it was handed over, and listened as she listed their address to him, told him to bring something with him.<br/>
<br/>
Will was a terrible southern boy, repressed that part of him more than anything else, but he couldn’t deny the rich heavy taste of good southern food. He could taste it in Jill’s cooking, and he hadn’t been able to taste anything in so long. He tried to savour it. He had tasted nothing this good since… <i> don’t say it. </i> It was good. Almost felt like it touched his soul.</p>
<p>“Not as nice as what Hannibal would make,” Abigail singsonged opposite him. Her long arms folded over the table, eyeing him brightly. She dug so deep into his brain, could pick out all the parts of himself that he tried to block out. <i> Because she’s you, you fucking idiot. </i> “You were thinking it.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t like everything he made.” Some of it was too rich, too much about the presentation, about the act of putting on a show. The narcissism at play. It would sit heavy in his stomach, soaking up wine too refined for his palate. </p>
<p>“You did. You just didn’t like that you did,” she said again, and he could feel his frustration pulsing beneath his skin, caught between blood and muscle. </p>
<p>“Don’t,” he warned her, remembering the night they had cooked Randall and ate him. The only lie had been <i>who</i> they had eaten. It had been simpler than the other things. His first time by choice. The mask had already slipped, Will hadn’t needed to push but he couldn’t help himself. Tore Randall apart from himself. It had been a warm comfort, Hannibal had smiled at him over the table. Will’s stomach full of the man sent to kill him, mind full of the man bringing new ideas; a new reality to his mind. Baiting him, baiting himself. </p>
<p>“You could almost think it was love, you know. Some kind of fucked up emotional affair.”</p>
<p>“He isn’t capable of love. He’s a monster,” Will said.</p>
<p>“And what does that make you?” Abigail asked. </p>
<p>“Just eat,” Will said, scooping another bite into his mouth, forcing it down. With his eyes closed he could see Hannibal’s smile much as it had been that night. <i> He trusted you and you betrayed him. You trusted him and he betrayed you. What good are you for each other outside of destruction? </i></p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div>Most nights were full of the same old nightmares, or at least the ones that had stuck around after Hannibal had left. What should have happened if Will had decided sooner. Jack dead at their feet in the wake of their beautiful destruction. No time for a display. The police would find his ashen and bloated body slumped in the very chair they killed him in. Hannibal would take Will with him, to Europe, to Italy, to France. Wherever. Abigail alive beside them; how long they would last alive and whole didn’t matter, life stretched on in the world Hannibal created for them. It wouldn’t matter. The rest of it would make sense in time. Their place together; whatever that would look like. What it would mean.<p>The image always changed halfway through. Fantasy distorted as Italy faded and suddenly he was dripping wet, standing in front of a betrayed Hannibal. <i> “You wanted to surprise me.” </i> One large hand cupped to his cheek, stroking so tenderly until he changed; until he tore open Will’s abdomen in his coiled heartbreak. Will awoke with his hand on his stomach, certain that it wasn’t sweat but blood. Certain that something was growing inside him, destined to split him apart. Abigail never showed up in those moments, still dead on the bloodied battleground of Hannibal’s kitchen.<br/>
<br/>
By the time morning came, Will had already been out early to walk the dogs. They were adaptable, always had been. They ground him in reality. His reality of living, his guilt at knowing if he had left with Hannibal they would’ve been abandoned.</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t do that to you,” Will said to Winston, who remained by his side even as the others trotted ahead. His dog looked up at him with his dark eyes, nudging his knuckles with his wet snout. He added an, “I’m sorry” because he was running out of people to talk to.</p>
<p>He didn’t like to linger on the deck during the day; it caused too many passers-by to stop and try to engage him. He would wait until late at night, dragging one chair he’d rescued from the thrift store outside. He sat, listening to the wet sounds of the bayou, the humidity prickling at his skin. His shirt stuck to him beneath his arms, creasing against his back. On his knee, he balanced a healthy pouring of Jim Beam. Already he could feel the effect. Tonight was a night for wallowing rather than dissociating quite as heavily as before. </p>
<p>“My dad died down there,” Will said to Abigail, twisting his head to the side. He stared down at the decking. They had found his father facedown in early dawn, laying dead all the night until a neighbour had passed.</p>
<p>“Don’t pretend you’re here grieving for him. It’s not him you’re cut up about,” Abigail said, but he ignored her.</p>
<p>“I’m glad he died before all of it,” he continued, “before I lost my mind, before I was locked up before…” Scenes in Hannibal’s office, warm by the fire, the heat in his belly, the world finally making sense with Hannibal’s mindset lodged into his skull. The warmth he gave Will that no one else did, even if it came at such a cost. “I wouldn’t want him to see this.”</p>
<p>“He already thought you were crazy.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Will laughed, bitter memories of his overwrought mind and his overwrought emotions and his dad standing beside him looking absolutely lost. “Yeah, he did.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ****</p>
</div> <p>Baths became easier than showers. For one, he could drink in them and if he poured enough cheap bubble bath in, it hid his body, which hid his scar, which made it easier to forget. Showers were troubling when it was so easy to fumble his fingers over the thick pink ridge. In the tub he could draw his knees until his back was flat to the bottom and let the water overwhelm him, holding his breath until his lungs burned and he could do nothing but struggle to the top.</p>
<p>He’d cleaned the tub up and it had come out relatively decent. Not great, but he wasn’t pulling the whole thing out for the sake of a few weathered areas. The tiles though, no amount of scrubbing the grout had improved the sad yellowing marks. Probably been there as long as the house and he knew his father, while not prone to living in squalor, wouldn’t have spent much time scrubbing the gunk between the tiles.</p>
<p>“You gonna fix it or what?” Abigail said, coming around the corner and leaning against the doorframe. The door was open, dogs spilling half in, half out and never too far away. </p>
<p>“Do you mind?” He said, hands sliding into the water to cover himself beneath the thin murky layer of bubbles.</p>
<p>“I’m not real,” she scoffed, rolling a shoulder. She looked down at him briefly before away, eyes on the tiles that had chipped near the far edge of the bathtub. “Your next project?”</p>
<p>“I’ve never tiled anything before.”</p>
<p>“It’d be a good project. Something to focus on. You don’t want to slip anymore than you already have,” she said softly, and he nodded his head. One hand lifted from the water, pushing his dark hair back from his face.<br/>
<br/>
Googling would be his best option. He knew he’d find instruction on there. But he had no access to the internet; no phone or computer. The local library would and he could no doubt pay for an hour on a computer to take notes, but he didn’t trust himself to stick to trusted DIY guides on tiling a bathroom, and not any word on the disappearance of Dr Hannibal Lecter. He didn’t want to give TattleCrime any more hits than it already received. </p>
<p>“Library isn’t a bad choice though,” He said to himself, cup of coffee in hand as he watch the dogs trot around the backyard early in the morning. His dad used to ship him off to the local library during the winter months, usually on the weekends when he was still too young to be of any use around the boatyards. </p>
<p>He wondered whether he’d have to sign up before setting foot in the building, but as it was, he gained access through the open doors and was out into the mouth of the building in no time. It was dusty in that undervalued and well-used manner, and Will felt like he was seven years old again, scouring the shelves for books to lose himself in. Once, in a town just south of the Missouri border, the library had been so small that he read his way through the children’s fiction in a month. He’d started to smuggle older books through beneath his sweater, remembered absorbing the pages of a Stephen King novel and waking himself up with nightmares more pronounced than anything he’d had before. His dad had found the book and thrown it in the trash. Will had been too ashamed to head back to the library in case he was found out.</p>
<p>Now he made his way to the second floor study area, browsing the top shelves, snorting when Abigail listed off titles aloud. “Ah look! <i> ‘The Art of Empathy: A Complete Guide to Life’s Most Essential Skill’ </i> Ah, must be written by a pro.”</p>
<p>“I’m sure,” Will laughed, and then cleared his throat in case anyone else heard. Eventually he plucked a selection of DIY books from the shelves and found his way to the mostly deserted study area. It was empty except for a young girl of nine or ten, swinging her brown legs from the chair, eyes up on him when he took a seat at a table across from her.</p>
<p> Will checked the index for any information on tiling. The first book was the clearest; it had a list of all the tools he would need to re-tile a bathroom. More than he realised, more expensive than he expected. He frowned, but wrote out a list on the notebook he had brought with him.</p>
<p>“You know you can take the books home with you, you don’t gotta sit in here,” the girl said to him, whispering loud enough it was almost a shout. Thankfully, there was no one else in the room with them. Will looked down to see what looked like a comic laid out in front of her. Will didn’t remember any of the libraries having them when he grew up.</p>
<p>“I’m not staying here long enough to sign up,” he told her.</p>
<p>“You live in that house across the street from <i>Barney’s,”</i> she said to him. Barney’s was a seafood bar that Will had ignored every night since he had arrived. “My dad’s a cook there, so I hang out. I’m Celia.”</p>
<p>“Oh yeah? I’m Will.”</p>
<p>“You got a whole ‘lotta dogs,” she said, fingers pressing down onto the bright colours in her book. She leaned forward, dark eyes gleaming at him.</p>
<p>“Yeah.” She was lonely, maybe as lonely as he was, which was why she was speaking to him. He didn’t need empathy to tell him that. “You like dogs?”</p>
<p>“Uh-huh. We can’t keep pets. Markus is allergic.”</p>
<p>“Is he your brother?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. He’s dumb, but he’s only three so I know he can’t help it.”</p>
<p>“Sure.” Will waited to see if she was going to say anything else. She was still looking at him as he adjusted the book in front of him. It was only as he turned the page that she started speaking again.</p>
<p>“You know you talk to yourself? I heard you when you were looking at the books just over there.” Will froze, would be embarrassed, but she was just a little girl and she couldn’t do anything about his madness. He’d just try to get her to stay away.</p>
<p>“First sign of madness, you know that right?” he said to her seriously, smiling quietly when she broke into a bright beam. “Why are you here, anyway? If you’ve got a library card.”</p>
<p>“It’s cool and free,” she shrugged. “Not much space for books at home, and I don’t have to deal with Markus. He makes so much noise.”</p>
<p>“Right, yeah.” Will swallowed. He should stop talking to little girls, particularly ones that had seen him engaging in his own hallucinations. Still, she quieted after a time and left him to get on with the research. He was burning through money that he hadn’t touched in years, and this was a project that didn’t seem difficult, but would cost so much more than just a deep clean.</p>
<p>He drove to the store not long after, bought enough equipment to weigh down his truck and drove back to the house. Abigail walked beside him through the store, sat beside him on the car ride home, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak to her.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div>By Saturday Will had demolished the original tiles in the bathroom and learned how to use the tile cutter with offcuts. He bought sea-foam green tiles to replace, but didn’t have the guts to start re-tiling. By the evening, he was wearing his smartest shirt, a black button down with green palm trees and red pelicans, and regretted ever agreeing to attend Jill’s party. <i> You chose to come here. </i> He wanted to be at home with his dogs. His home in Wolf Trap. He wanted to be somewhere else so bad that he figured he’d quite like the harsh sameness of BSHCI right now, and all the dingy routines forced upon him. Chilton’s incompetence, Matthew’s obsession. Beverly’s belief in him, even under the guise of something else. Before Hannibal had slaughtered her. Before their game had twisted even further.<p>Will bought beer and slaw that he purchased from a deli and dished up in Jill’s casserole dish. He guessed people could tell, but he didn’t actually care. He’d placed them on the table with everyone else’s and forced himself to be pleasant for five minutes as Jill spoke with him, introduced her husband and his pink bloated friends in matching fishing shirts. He was introduced to a twenty-something blonde girl called Catelyn, and she tried her best to flirt with him, but he wouldn’t look at her, couldn’t stop focusing on the pit of despair opening up in his chest, like an ever gaping wound. Eventually she gave up. He helped himself to a beer, but didn’t touch the food and found a quiet bench in the corner of the backyard away from everyone else.</p>
<p>It was summer, Will knew that was a good enough reason for everyone to be out celebrating together, but he couldn’t quite understand the point. <i> “There doesn’t have to be a point to throw a party,” </i> Abigail’s voice said in the back of his head. She hadn’t even made it to college; she’d missed out on so much. <i> “Because you took it from me.” </i></p>
<p>“You dress like a tourist.” Will jolted upright at the sound of someone’s voice. Celia was standing in front of him, looking down at the palm trees covering his shirt.</p>
<p>“Yeah, I guess I do,” he said. He could see Catelyn talking with her friends by the side of the house. If he was normal, he’d go over to her with a fresh beer. Wrap up his loneliness in the guise of a flirtation and a smooth apology. Instead, he looked at the young girl staring at him, a beaker of something purple in her hand, a matching stain on the front of her white shirt.</p>
<p>“You know anyone here?” He asked. </p>
<p>“Some,” she shrugged. “Did you fix your stuff you were researching?”</p>
<p>“Thought about it.”</p>
<p>“You gonna go back?”</p>
<p>“If I need to find out more. How’s Markus?”</p>
<p>“Probably crying.” She took a sip of her drink. “He’s at home, but dad said I could come because there were other kids here to play with.” She sounded as thrilled about the idea as he’d been. There was a selection of kids running around in the far distance. They didn’t seem interested in Celia joining them. A familiar ache to his own childhood that made him want to reach out to her further.</p>
<p>“You want some beer?” He asked, tilting the neck of his bottle. She looked curious for a moment, then scrunched her nose up laughing.</p>
<p>“My daddy would kick your ass if you did that.”</p>
<p>“If he’s anything like my daddy was, he’d kick yours for speaking like that.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, he would cuss me out.” She was silent for a few moments, and he could tell that she wanted to say something else. Eventually she leaned forward, arms sprawled over the bench. “You’re pretty weird, Will. I heard the adults talking, and they said you had too many dogs.”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” He couldn’t deny either of those points. Didn’t really want to.</p>
<p>“Can I walk them?”</p>
<p>“Uh?” He said, in part because his dogs weren’t particularly the kind you walked neatly along the sidewalk with, partly because taking a nine-year-old up on her offer of walking his dogs was too weird even for him. He’d already spent enough time locked up. He sure as hell wasn’t going back. “Probably not. I’m a stranger.”</p>
<p>“Not really I’ve met you twice now and they wouldn’t have invited you if they thought you were a freak.”</p>
<p>“Why do you think they invited me?”</p>
<p>“So they can talk about you, probably. My daddy says these sorts are all like that, but he likes the free beer.” He laughed, and she did too, just old enough to understand. Celia left for a while to pull at her father’s arm. He was sitting on a bench with a group of men, all beers in hand, gesturing wildly to one another. Maybe about football. Will had never been good at casual talk like that. </p>
<p>“Sweet kid,” another woman took a seat beside him on the bench. Leigh Ann maybe, or Leah. He glanced at her forehead and not her eyes. Dark hair, older than Catelyn. The kindness in her gaze reminded him of Alana, and the thought made him flinch. He took a sip of his lukewarm beer.</p>
<p>“Sure. We met the other day. She doesn’t like my taste in shirts.”</p>
<p>“Yeah…”</p>
<p> They had a stilted exchange, enough that he knew he probably would not be invited back anytime soon. She tried to dig for conversation, but he wouldn’t look at her long enough to engage properly. She gave up after a few minutes and left him alone again. He’d noticed the gathering of women eyeing him, how he had gone down in their estimation after the gentle refusal to flirt with those sent his way. His eyes scanned elsewhere; There were men speaking about fishing, and that was something he could handle, but they were all older and fatherly and he would stick out too much if he even attempted. </p>
<p>He said to himself he would give it five minutes before finding Jill and excusing himself for the night. Blame his antisocial attitude on a headache, maybe relate it to grief if she tried to force the issue. He was about to leave when Celia’s dad approached. He stiffened and wondered whether his joke about offering her alcohol was going to get him into serious trouble. </p>
<p>Instead he said, “The kids have found a dog and it seems real rabid. Could you help?”</p>
<p>Will had some talents, he supposed. Still, he was just relieved that no one recognised him from his other life or at the very least was too polite to say anything to his face about it. He stood up and walked over to the far corner of the garden, where a group of children, including Celia gathered.</p>
<p>“I wanna take it home with me!” A kid with orange hair said, thrusting his hand toward what looked to be a Chihuahua. The dog was shaking, ears flattened. Teeth not bared, not quite scared of strangers to keep a distance. Will wouldn’t trust it not to snap or lash out. Probably hungry.</p>
<p>“No, don’t put your hand out,” Will said, pulling the boy back toward him. The dog was scared more than anything, but scared dogs were prone to attack and a dog attacking a child was a situation that Will couldn’t bear to think of. </p>
<p>“You gotta put your hand out to let it sniff,” one kid said, nasal and authoritative. Probably a bully, Will could tell without looking.</p>
<p>“No. You let it come to you.” Will bent down. “It might think you’re attacking it.”</p>
<p>“I’d listen to him.” The familiar voice behind him, Celia’s dark eyes glittering, holding close to her dad who still hovered. “He has like ten dogs.”</p>
<p>“Only seven,” he said. The dog was dirty, probably hungry, and approached the party hoping for food. A relatively new stray, he’d guess. “Hey it’s alright. I’m not gonna hurt you. It’s okay.” Will pulled his light jacket off, he’d need something to wrap the thing up in and he couldn’t bear to ask for a towel or blanket. He could feel eyes burning at his back, adults watching him, assessing him engaging with something for the first time all night. God, he should not have come. Why did he come?</p>
<p>It took time, long enough that the group of kids grew bored. He heard Celia’s dad tell her to leave Will alone, but she wanted to stay. Will looked up, said it was fine, and heard the laboured sigh of the other man giving in to his daughter. When the dog finally came to Will, it was flinching, shaking, but didn’t consider him a threat.</p>
<p>“You should be a vet,” Celia said seriously. She was pulling at her dad’s hand, who was looking over at Will with unfiltered surprise. No one ever really knew what to make of him. “Can I come visit when you get them all settled?”</p>
<p>“Who says I’m keeping it?” Will said, but he couldn’t stop the small smile peeling up over his mouth.</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>“Must be like looking in a mirror, huh?” Abigail said, sitting up on the kitchen counter while Will gently saw to the little dog. It was a <i>she</i> and her fur was matted in some places, but Will took his time, cutting the knots and shushing her gently. He kept the other dogs out back, so she wouldn’t feel overwhelmed, or anymore overwhelmed than currently.</p>
<p>“She’s just scared,” Will said, and then smiled down at the big black eyes staring up. “Sometimes a bit of kindness is all you need.”</p>
<p>“Another stray for the pile,” Abigail’s voice was soft, almost mocking. “You could’ve used tonight to blend in, but now it’s even worse. Performing your party trick for everyone.”</p>
<p>“My party trick is empathising with the wrong people,” Will said, not looking up from the dog. “You’re not the wrong sort, are you, baby girl? What are we gonna call you, huh?”</p>
<p>“You’re the wrong sort,” Abigail preached, and when Will looked at her with fury almost blind in his eyes, there was nothing filling the space at all. </p>
<p>Will went to bed, the dogs scattered over the floor with the little Chihuahua crated with a blanket over the top. The dogs were well used to new strays being added, knew to leave her alone, but they weren’t the problem. She cried, a pitchy noise that he could feel deep in his chest. Dragging him away from sleep and toward her own pain. He tried calming her with his voice, shushing the other dogs when they grew restless. When the crying didn’t stop, and instead built into more pitchy whines, he gave in.</p>
<p>Will climbed from the bed and held out his hands toward her. She sniffed, then bundled close and he picked her up, placing her on the bed beside him. If there was a huff of indigence from one of his other dogs, he ignored it. He let her settle to the side of him, her tiny head resting on his forearm.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div>Will had thought about taking the dog down to the closest vets, just to see whether she was micro-chipped, but he’d done far too much socialising the night before, and after a solid 12 hours with the dog, he couldn’t see that there was anything all that wrong with her outside of a traumatised state. <p>“I’m right there with you,” he said to the dog. She was a scared little thing that yapped whenever he left her eyesight, but every so often she would permit to be put down, if only so she could watch him with beaded eyes, laying her chin on her paws as he pasted the new wallpaper up, ignoring the sounds of his past, biting at his neck.</p>
<p>The hallway was more or less finished by the end of the day. He knew he had to tackle the living room at some point, but there was an ache deep in his gut that stopped him. More of himself would pool out, more of his feelings for his father, whatever they were would leak. He couldn’t take any more emotional turmoil, not until he figured the rest out.</p>
<p>He walked the dogs and made a fuss of his original pack, especially Winston, because they’d had to take a backseat while he dealt with the new one. He left them at home with fresh food and water, before he walked the three blocks to <i>Barney’s</i>, still holding onto the little Chihuahua. It was that odd point in the day between afternoon and evening, he knew it wouldn’t be busy.</p>
<p>“Hi,” he said, when he saw Celia sitting up at the bar, feet swinging from the barstool, sandals slapping against her bare soles. In front of her was a yellow milkshake and a selection of books laid out on the bar. Basic algebra, the poor kid. He slid onto the barstool beside her, holding the dog close to his chest.</p>
<p>“Hi Will,” she said, and he smiled awkwardly. He couldn’t believe the only person he’d connected with was an nine-year-old kid. <i>Way to make yourself even more of a freak.</i> He looked up through the open kitchen and saw her father looking at the two of them, stained apron askew, hot skillet in hand. Still, his smile was polite and Will waved a limp hand in response, then looked down at her.</p>
<p>“You wanted to know about the dog. She’s going to be okay.” He hefted the dog up. Probably wasn’t allowed, but he figured he’d made enough people uncomfortable the night before that they’d presume he needed a service dog and wouldn’t complain. </p>
<p>Celia cooed but didn’t reach out to touch. Maybe she remembered his warning the night before, maybe she was just respectful of Will’s space. “Whats her name?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know.” The name usually came to him, but all he saw when he looked at the little thing was his own sadness. He could hardly call her after himself. “What do you think?”</p>
<p>“You should name her Button. Because she’s cute as a button.”</p>
<p>“Button? Alright.” He walked into that one, but he had nothing to give. </p>
<p>“Are you really going to keep her?”</p>
<p>“Sure. What’s four more paws?” Will said, fully aware that he wasn’t helping the issue by carrying her around everywhere. She would settle, he would give her time, she’d become part of the pack and he would heal and it would all be <i> fine</i>.</p>
<p>“You’re pretty weird, Will,” Celia’s tone was blunt if kind and he nodded his head in agreement to the kid. She pointed at her full glass with a bright smile. “Anyway, you want some milkshake? It’s banana.”</p>
<p>“No, I’m good.” He stumbled from his seat, clutching Button closer. The feel of her quick-beat heart against his palms was soothing. “See you around, kid.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div>Button, it seemed, wanted to make Will’s life as difficult as possible. She refused to play with the others, refused to eat with the others, refused to do anything but yap and shake at Will until he picked her up with a sigh and placed her in his lap. She would only sleep on the bed beside him, nibbling his fingers until he took to stroking her gently between her pointed ears. <p>“The first time I said it I was kidding, but she is just you. Maybe you’re dead too and you’ve been reincarnated as a fucking Chihuahua,” Abigail said unhelpfully. He couldn’t see her in the bedroom’s dark gloom, but he imagined her by the window, in sleep clothes and mussed hair. He heard the distant jingle of one of his dogs scratching their collar.</p>
<p>“That doesn’t even make sense,” he insisted.</p>
<p>Abigail continued in his mind even when he closed his eyes. “Mouthy, prone to lashing out. She just needs someone to guide her.”</p>
<p>“Someone to imprint on.”</p>
<p>“Oh hey, don’t talk to me about daddy issues. I wouldn’t know,” her voice was humorous again, in that way it had never been when he’d seen her alive.</p>
<p>“I don’t have—” but Will couldn’t quite bring himself to say it. </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div>He’d been taking regular trips up to Lake Martin with the dogs, letting them run free once they were away from anyone else. The neighbours were friendly enough but distant since the party. All aside from Celia, who popped by every so often to check on Button. He knew that once Crawford was ready, he would pursue Will, would want him to help chase Hannibal down and Will would decline, he would decline… he would — <i> would you? What would you do? </i><p>He’d thrown himself twice as hard into renovating the house. The hallway was finished, he’d brightened the joinery up across the whole of the downstairs, sanded the floors and painted the windowsills. He’d made the beige kitchen a little brighter with a fresh coat. He’d done something to the plumbing that made the water run better, although he wasn’t convinced his work would hold up. His hands were sore, his muscles ached, but he felt less desolate. He went to bed exhausted every night, and the bathroom remained untiled.</p>
<p>“If they knew the inside of your head, they’d have never let you out. The FBI should’ve locked you up the moment you woke from the coma,” Abigail said beside him. They sat crossed-legged on the floor in the living room, the floorboards smooth under his palms as he lent back on his hands, eyes on Abigail, staring flatly at him.</p>
<p>“They knew enough about what I kept up here to keep using me.” Will tapped the side of his forehead to prove a point.</p>
<p>“You allowed yourself to be used. It isn’t the same. And what you did… what you did with Hannibal. You’d kill Jack if it meant he’d go free. Hell, you’d probably join him. Make up for lost time, even if he’d try to kill you. He might, you know. Might do it correctly the next time.”</p>
<p>“But he kept us alive,” Will reminded her, tracing the length of the scar over his shirt. He’d cut him perfectly, just damaged enough; scarred for life, but still breathing. “Maybe I’d kill him first.”</p>
<p>“No, you wouldn’t. You’d say anything to hurt him, but you’d never get more than the tip of the blade in before he got you back ten times worse.”</p>
<p>“He’d eat me rather than leave me to rot. I think he’d eat all of me. I don’t think he’d display me like the others.” The thought was oddly comforting. Will closed his eyes and imagined.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div>Will should have known about it earlier, but he had no access to the internet and no TV. No one had found him and anyway, he wasn’t a suspect. No one cared about him now that Hannibal wasn’t around. Jack would come. If Hannibal wasn’t caught (he wouldn’t be, Will prayed he wouldn’t be) and Jack recovered, he would find Will, would browbeat him into his well-worn collar and leash and drag him all across Europe until they found the doctor. <p>But there on the front page of a newspaper as he browsed the store was the familiar image of the cold but beautiful Bedelia Du Maurier. It was a professional photo, probably lifted from her ID, but her icy beauty shone through all the same. <i>Lecter's psychiatrist missing - manhunt extended.</i></p>
<p>Bedelia Du fucking Maurier. The only one to believe him. The one that carefully untangled her delicate limbs from the web of destruction Hannibal had built around her. The confession to murdering her patient under his watch. She would not have gone unwillingly. Hannibal wasn’t the sort to focus on those that he didn’t think had the spark of darkness ready to be lit up. She had taken his place, and it stung heavy enough that he dug blunt fingers into his abdomen, moving past the papers to a different aisle. </p>
<p>It made the rest of his time in the store feel hazy. He couldn’t stop the anger leeching up, the panic quickly after. No right to be angry, he reminded himself. You don’t want him. You sold him out to Crawford. You shouldn’t want him. He put you in prison. He killed Beverly. He killed Abigail because you couldn’t keep your <i>goddamn </i> mouth shut.</p>
<p>“Why are you so jealous? You betrayed him,” Abigail said bitterly, his thoughts becoming words in another mouth. They were more deriding in her tone, easier to digest. “You got me killed so you could keep pretending you were doing the right thing.”</p>
<p>“That isn’t true,” he said, hands wrapped around the steering wheel. The smell of wet blood filled his lungs, and he didn’t need to look over to see the blood pouring from her throat. “How could I go with him after everything he’d done?”</p>
<p>“Because it’s what you wanted,” Abigail’s voice trailed off into bloody wheezing. By the time he chanced a look to the passenger seat, it was empty.</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>Will sat with Button on the floor of the living room, back against his father’s chair with his eyes closed. Button chewed on the hem of his shirt, but he didn’t stop her, just continued stroking her fur as he moved forward into his Memory Palace. The looming shadows of Hannibal’s townhouse enticed him, but he turned away from it, moving instead to the stream. The dogs, always so close by to him, careened off along the familiar route behind his house as he stared down at a pile of clothes on the grassy bank.</p>
<p>His father’s waders were too big, but that was a comfort as Will pulled them on. He hadn’t been fishing once since he’d got here, but in his Memory Palace he had nothing to do but fish. Pulling on his father’s waders reminded him of being a kid, reminded him how life had been when they had travelled from place to place whenever work dried up. Fishing together had been an anchor, a reminder that they shared some pathology, despite their differences.</p>
<p>“Do you want to talk about it?” Abigail asked, stepping into the stream with him, in her matching pair. No longer bleeding or gasping, but looking warm and tanned beside him, her smile bright and her hair a warm red-brown in the sun. She held the line in her hand all wrong, but he didn’t correct her. “They think he took his psychiatrist with him. That bitch.”</p>
<p>Replaced. Easily replaced. It ached only half as much as the tearing of his guts, but it was a stinging humiliation that wouldn’t go away. Reminded him of Tier, of the idea that there had been so many like Will. Interesting until he cast them aside, unwanted playthings that Hannibal had grown tired of.</p>
<p>“I’m not sure I know what he wanted,” Will said, thinking back. If he had truly wanted Will, then he wouldn’t have so easily picked a replacement. Someone that was there before him, that showed the same desires. She’d killed. Killed that patient and got away with it. </p>
<p>“She’s the consolation, Will.”</p>
<p>“She can console all she likes,” Will said, pulling back his line and recasting. “Why did she go with him?”</p>
<p>“Curiosity runs both ways, don’t you think?” </p>
<p>He’d never been prone to jealous fits before. Never cared enough about anything. Anything that came to him, that fell into his lap, was usually strays, abandoned by everyone else, the last resort option, and he did his damn best to make sure they were loved, and fed, and cared for. </p>
<p>Hannibal had chased after him. Hannibal had led him on in those early months, built trust, had set Will’s mind on fire, but had opened his heart to the possibility of friendship. Had trusted Will. Then it was gone in the face of betrayal. Then the courtship. A meeting of beliefs. Will had been the seducer seduced, playing both sides, hating Hannibal for what he had done, but always craving more.</p>
<p>“You made yourself real pretty for him,” Abigail whispered. “You’ve never done that for anyone else. You ever think about what that means?”</p>
<p>“I try not to.” </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div>When the nights cool down, Will sat on the back porch with Button curled up in his lap and his head strained up toward the sky. The sparkling veil of stars curled over top, blanketing the darkness. He would do the same in Wolf Trap. When nightmares tore him awake, when he couldn’t <i>look</i> after spending all day in the minds of monsters, he would stare up and see Ursa Major, Polaris; all the stars and their familiar placements in the night above.<p>“Dad taught me the stars when I was a kid,” Will said quietly, hand buried in blonde fur, his neck twisting to stare at Abigail beside him. “The dark terrified me, but he would drag me out of the house and he’d sit me on his knees and squeeze me so tight around the middle. He told me to look up and realise that no matter where we moved to I’d always see the same thing. They’d always be there even if everything else changed.”</p>
<p>“It made you feel safe,” Abigail said, looking up. He imagined her eyes, darkened by the light, reflecting the stars above. Imagined them hollowed out, black holes absorbing the sky.</p>
<p>And if he could, maybe he would go back to being small enough to sit on his father’s knees, swallowed up in his embrace, the feel of his canvas fishing jacket scratching the side of his face, the coarseness of his jeans beneath his thighs. That worn-in and familiar scent of his father; earthy and smoke-filled, a little sour, a little like strong liquor. </p>
<p>“I wonder,” he said, thoughts muddled as he thought to all the anchors he’s had over the years, how rudderless he felt when left to bathe inside his own mind, how useless they had been at stabilising him. How it had felt with Hannibal, having someone take control of Will’s damaged thoughts, to absorb them into something else and open his eyes to reality. Even under the guise of seduction, where Hannibal had handed trust and power over to him, Will had felt safe in the knowledge that he was standing there beside him.</p>
<p>“Do you think he looks up and wonders too?”</p>
<p>“If you want to say it, you should just say it,” Abigail said beside him, barely a whisper. He wondered if he looked over, how real she would appear. She was fading now, more often than not.</p>
<p>“Hannibal,” he said instead. “I wonder what he sees.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here comes part three of Will making terrible decisions.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Will had finally moved things around in the living room. Or at least he found a small cardboard box tucked behind the desk. Inside was a variety of knickknacks leftover from his childhood, the only thing in the house that actually had any relation to him. The box was mostly empty; a tin of old coins, half a deck of cards. The old book of stargazing he’d bought for two bucks. Not much else. </p>
<p>“It doesn’t mean he didn't love you, you know. Just because he doesn't have any reminders of you,” Abigail said. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know what I’m thinking,” Will said, softly kicking the box back where he found it. It felt so intrusive to be standing around in the only cluttered room in the house that he couldn't make himself do anything else. He tried to imagine his father out, purchasing the books on the shelves. They were all old, yellow pages and scuffed spines indicative of second-hand. John Grisham novels; a few paperback adventures, nothing very exciting.  </p>
<p>Abigail called him back to reality, dancing over the dogs sprawled in the living room. Button was curled up in Will’s dad’s chair, nose tucked under her tail. He didn’t want anyone sitting in it, he couldn’t sit in it, but he couldn’t move her either. “I’m thinking you need to finish the bathroom before you start in here.”</p>
<p>“I know.” He rested his hands on his hips. “I should never have… never have taken them off.” He scratched at his jaw, tapping his fingers against his chin just as he heard a car roll up outside. The open and closing of a passenger door. He moved to the window, picking up Button on his way as she stirred. “Oh shit.”</p>
<p>It must have been an Uber because once the car moved away, Alana Bloom was standing outside his father’s house. She looked thin, propped up on a cane in a lightweight dress. He stood staring through the window, frozen, mouth dry. Buster and Penny trotted over to where he was standing, and when they caught sight of Alana, they barked excitedly. He’d forgotten that she had looked after them when he wasn’t able to.</p>
<p>Without the knowledge that he was watching, he noticed Alana trying to compose herself. She combed her hair over her shoulder with the hand not propped onto the cane. She looked around, but the street was empty. A quick glance down at her feet before she moved up toward the porch. Will stepped back from the window as she knocked, holding Button closer, feeling her heart race against his own. She hated strangers. Hated anyone that wasn’t him.</p>
<p>“I mean, I’d answer for you, but I’m dead,” Abigail said, falling down onto his father’s chair, legs looped over the arm.</p>
<p>“All right.” He moved from the room and then turned to look over his shoulder at where she flopped. “Get out of his chair.”</p>
<p>Will answered the door quicker than Alana was expecting because she hadn’t quite got her features in place. She looked tired, dark circles under her blue eyes. Pale and sweaty in the afternoon sun. The last time he had seen her she was sprawled outside Hannibal’s house, the first one down that night.</p>
<p>“Come in,” he said, eyes on the sidewalk where he saw it was still deserted. He was grateful. He didn’t want to get caught up in any more gossip. Didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself.</p>
<p>“A new stray?” Alana said, taking a seat in the kitchen. She gestured to Button, but didn’t offer a hand. In all honesty, she looked as thrilled to be here as Will was to see her. She looked different, like even if she put on those familiar boots and one of those pretty dresses, she’d still look so unfamiliar. Distorted and out of the right shape.</p>
<p>“This is Button,” he said. “We met at a party.”</p>
<p>“You party now?”</p>
<p>“Not really.” He waited for the dogs to finish excitedly sniffing at Alana before calling them away. “A shared trauma. Why are you here, Alana?”</p>
<p>“Can I get a cold drink, Will? I came direct from the airport.” She flew out here to see him. Still too soon in her condition, really. Which meant it was important. Admittedly, she would have no other way of contacting him, but she was the kind to want to do it in person.</p>
<p>“We have soda.” He stood up, the little dog in the crook of his arm as he moved to the refrigerator. He had untouched soda, he had tequila and bourbon, but it was a little early for either of those. He grabbed a can and handed it to her. He didn’t want to drink.</p>
<p>He took a seat opposite her, watching her pull open the tab. She seemed weak. “We?”</p>
<p>“I know she isn’t real,” Will said, turning and placing a glass down on the table between them. From the corner of his eye he could see Abigail drifting from the room, long hair swinging behind her. Alana eyed him, brow damp with sweat. She wasn’t used to the heat. Still she poured the soda into the glass and he stared at the frothy head, watching it sizzle and hiss. “I still think of him.”</p>
<p>Alana’s silence suggested a similar process. “What he did to you was unforgivable, Will. What he did to all of us.”</p>
<p>He didn’t stop stroking Button’s head, the soft part between her large ears. The rhythmic brushing gave his hands something to focus on, if nothing else. “I’m not so sure.”</p>
<p>“You forgive him.” It wasn’t said as a question, so Will refused to answer. He heard her shaky intake of breath, the way she mumbled his name. “Even after what he did to you?”</p>
<p>Will caught her eye, saw how red-ringed they were, before he focused on her shaking shoulders instead. “If he wanted me dead, I would be dead.”</p>
<p>She laughed, but it was almost a sob. Almost had him bristling. “Abigail is dead, Will. He did that.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, and we all have her blood on our hands.” She scoffed, wet and sad, and he sat in his stupor, letting Button nibble on his fingers instead. “How did you find me?”</p>
<p>“When you were in the hospital with the fever, you mentioned your father’s place. I found the address at your house after you left.” He didn’t care for the intrusiveness, but he also didn’t care much for Alana at all. Hard to care about anything. </p>
<p>“You shouldn’t have come. I don’t want you here.” </p>
<p>“You think I want to be here, Will? I’m worried about you.” He chanced a look toward her, noticed the wet trails down her cheeks, even if the tears had stopped. “You can’t keep Abigail alive in this way. Let her go. This isn’t… good for you. You don’t look well.”</p>
<p>“No.” He shook his head to her words, jolting Button in his lap. “You don’t get to say that to me after everything. You can’t come here crying to me. Did you think I’d want to sit around with you talking about how he betrayed us all and—”</p>
<p>“You know where he is.” Her eyes were clear on him, her hand raising to her mouth. “And you’re covering for him?”</p>
<p>“I’m not covering. I couldn’t say for sure,” he warned her. “I’m done with the FBI. If you came here on Jack’s word, you can leave. I don’t know why else you would come.” They weren’t friends. They hadn’t been friends for a long time. The comfort he had taken at the sight of her had diminished in the trauma, shared or otherwise.</p>
<p>“Jack thinks he has a lead. After his wife—” Alana broke off, fingers curling around the soda can in front of her. “He’s on a flight to Europe.”</p>
<p>“By the time Jack finds him, he’ll be gone. Hannibal will always outsmart him.” She couldn’t deny it, so she didn’t. Instead her shoulders sagged inwards. He didn’t try hard enough to work out whether her pity was aimed more at him or herself.</p>
<p>“You’re not yourself, Will.”</p>
<p>“How would you know?” he tried to swallow down the brimming anger. Smoothed the one hand he wasn’t holding onto his dog over his hairline. “You don’t know me, Alana. Don’t play my saviour, it didn’t suit you then, and it doesn’t suit you now.”</p>
<p>“I want you to stay away from him, Will. Whatever happens, you stay away from Hannibal.”</p>
<p>“Fuck you, Alana. I’m pretty far away from him.” The words came out with little heat, but he dropped Button down to the floor and stumbled from the room to calm himself down. He stood in the small half-demolished bathroom with the door locked and looked at himself in the mirror. He needed to shave. His eyes looked darker than ever in the shadows, hollowed out beneath the sockets. </p>
<p>“Does she have the powers to get a psych eval on you?” Abigail asked. He could see her reflection shimmering in the cracks behind him. “Hannibal freed you last time. Who would help you this time if she gets you locked up?”</p>
<p>“I’ll have to help myself.” Will closed his eyes, forehead pressed against the mirror. “I need to help myself.”</p>
<p>Once he’d splashed cold water on his face, he walked back into the kitchen and ignored any bad blood between them for a while. Alana was here, and she was in a terrible state, and he had made his feelings known. There was nothing either of them could do about the past.</p>
<p> He made a wilted salad from the pitiful ingredients in his refrigerator and sent the dogs away when they started pawing at his legs. He sliced tomatoes and shredded leaves and poured a quick makeshift dressing over the top, before placing it between them on the table. </p>
<p>“Your injuries seem pretty severe.”</p>
<p>“I’m walking,” she said, cold. She had been so warm before, so emotional. So emotional she allowed it to get the better of her. Now she seemed angry. She pulled a spoonful of the salad toward her plate and stabbed at a slither of tomato. When she bit down, her entire jaw trembled. </p>
<p>“I spent months imagining the ways I would kill him.”</p>
<p>“You tried,” she said, and he nodded. He’d have liked to have seen it in person. Hannibal’s blood running down the drain, arms outstretched like the Messiah. He must've looked so powerful, so vulnerable. “You tried to have him killed.”</p>
<p>“We talked about it together. He stopped me killing Ingram on Peter’s behalf and rewarded me with Randall instead. We talked about his murder at my hands over expensive wine. We revelled in the intimacy.” He saw her flinch, and a part of himself flooded with excitement. A nasty part that had him looking away. “I don’t think about it so much anymore. What use is he to me if he’s dead?”</p>
<p>“Will.” She sounded like she was crying and he hated it. He wanted to get the booze out or maybe hide in the bathtub and sink down into his memory palace and find Hannibal and ask him questions and look at him and understand and ignore the fall out. “Were you sleeping together?”</p>
<p>The question was absurd, not so much in the context but because he couldn’t understand why it would even matter. Abigail was still dead and Will was still broken and Hannibal had left and that was all there was to it. That they hadn’t fallen in to bed together was probably a good thing.</p>
<p>“You want to add infidelity to the list of ways he fucked you over?” he asked, unable to swallow the spite, or look at her face to see how it would fall. He stared down at his empty plate, rather than catch her eye.</p>
<p>“I deserved that,” she said. “I didn’t believe you. You kept—”</p>
<p>“You think I’m crazy,” He interrupted. “You always did and yet I never felt clearer than when I was with him. I knew who I was with him. How does that sit with you? I’m glad he isn’t dead.”</p>
<p>She reached across the table toward him, pale fingers wrapping around his exposed wrist. “You’re not okay, Will. You don’t look okay. I know you’re not okay.”</p>
<p>“I’ve been wearing thin for a while.” She didn’t answer. “I’m fixing my dad’s house up and then I’m going to sell it.”</p>
<p>“And then what?” Most days, he wanted to slip off into the ether. Wanted someone to come and drag him away from his mind, like his dad used to, drag him into a sense of understanding and acceptance, as Hannibal had. Neither seemed likely.</p>
<p>Alana left in an Uber later that day. He didn’t hug her goodbye. He still couldn’t be sure what she had wanted from him. An explanation or a confession, proof that he was doing so much better without Hannibal. He wasn’t sure, and he didn’t feel better for seeing her. He hoped she would find peace with whatever had happened. Strange, he thought, how he could almost have loved her once. </p>
<p>“She isn’t a bad woman,” Will said out loud, watching from the door as she drove away.</p>
<p>“You’re just a bad man,” Abigail responded, standing beside him. “Do you want to talk about it?” Abigail asked as he moved forward to take a seat on the porch steps. She joined him, and so did the dogs, clustering around him, filling his hands with soft fur and wet snouts. “Alana asked whether you were intimate and you turned it around.”</p>
<p>“We weren’t.”</p>
<p>“Did you want to be?”</p>
<p>“It wasn’t the first thing that crossed my mind,” Will laughed at the absurdity, hands rolling through Winston’s coat. He felt antsy, heat prickling under the top layer of skin. “Maybe. I know that he—I know that we could have gone in that direction.”</p>
<p>“You wouldn’t have been disappointed to end up in his bed.”</p>
<p>“Fuck off. I’m not talking to you about this.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div>It was time for something new. Will couldn’t sit in his own skin without thinking of it. <i>A new way to self-destruct. </i> Alana’s comment regarding his intimacy with Hannibal had brought it to the surface. Of course Will knew Hannibal had, if nothing else, been attracted to him. He knew enough to present his reentry to society with combed hair and pressed clothes.<p>Will had a bath and focused more on cleaning himself than wallowing in self pity. He brushed his teeth until his gums were sore and then swilled mouthwash that burned. He trimmed his facial hair that had grown in heavier and he finger-combed his hair, parting it on the side. The humidity had a tendency to cling to the length, pulling it up into tighter curls. He pulled them out and then pressed his fingers to his cheeks, firm enough until he felt the fine bones beneath his eye sockets.</p>
<p>He found the nicest shirt he owned, which was black and covered in embossed grey leaves. He heard Celie’s voice in his head <i>”tourist clothes”</i> and it made him laugh. Dark jeans and his wallet. No jacket. He hesitated, tried to tell himself that what he was doing was irrational and thoughtless.</p>
<p>“Don’t follow me out,” Will said to Abigail, once he had settled the dogs. Winston had taken a liking to Button. He would look after her for a few hours.</p>
<p>“Are you practicing a hypothesis?” Abigail asked. “Going to fuck him out of your system?”</p>
<p>“I’m going to have a beer. I won’t be late.” He closed the door behind him, hopping into his truck before he could change his mind.&gt;/p&gt;<br/>
<br/>
When Will was fifteen, they lived in Biloxi for eight months. It had been the longest he had spent anywhere. He’d met a girl called Shelby, and then he’d met her older brother Aaron and it had been the year of discovery. Of sexuality. Of realising that sex with men and women was something he didn’t really mind. By his teens, his dad had more or less finished caring for him, left him to his own devices, just about remembered to pick him up every time that they moved. But Will had known even then that what he was doing with Aaron would’ve had him beaten within an inch of his life.</p>
<p>There’d been men since Aaron, but they were about as sporadic as his relationships with women. He supposed women were easier. They could take what they wanted from him, and he could feel like a decent gentleman in allowing them to set the boundaries. His relationships with men had finished the same night they started. Painful, wet and regrettable. The walk of shame accompanied with a distinctive limp.</p>
<p>Will drove three towns over. Not the city, but big enough to be anonymous. His teenage years experimenting with hook-ups meant he knew the bars to look for, knew the type of men that would be interested. Knew enough to be curious. He pulled up into an empty town square, parked the car and watched the strip of bars in front of him. He found the right one and left the car. The doors to the bar spilled open, the yellow and neon lights illuminating the smokers hovering in the doors. He walked inside.</p>
<p>The bar was cloistered with foul smells, and something distinctly comforting as a southerner coming home. There was a familiarity in the tanned and lined faces of the patrons, although he steered away from looking anyone in the eye. He ordered imported beer and was grateful for the wedge of lime thumbed harshly down the neck of the bottle. He took it to the corner with the best view.</p>
<p>“You’re not supposed to be here.” He looked to his left, Abigail sat beside him. Her long hair caught up on one side and softly waved, and she was in nicer clothes than he’d ever seen. A black dress. Her eyelids sparkled with silver. Her lips painted pink.</p>
<p>“You brought me here,” she shrugged. He wondered how many bars she had been too, how experienced she was. She would have been like Will, kept any desires hidden from her father, what with the way he felt about her. “I guess Alana’s comment really did trigger something, huh? What are you doing, Will?”</p>
<p>“Hannibal is a hedonistic narcissist. He’d take what he could get, and he’d enjoy it whatever way it came.”</p>
<p>“You’re not Hannibal.”</p>
<p>“Be quiet. I’m trying to concentrate.” He pressed his beer to his lips, scanning the room. It was busy, busy enough to be anonymous. He caught the eye of a man staring at him from across the room, cigarette hanging from his lips as if he was on his way outside. Will drew his eyes away, toward Abigail sitting beside him.</p>
<p>“Will, you’re being fucking stupid. Come home and forget this. Hannibal forgot you.”</p>
<p>“He’s probably screwing his psychiatrist right now.”</p>
<p>“And you’d rather it was you?”</p>
<p><i>“Alright.</i> I can’t pretend that it wasn’t mutual, or that I knew a part of him wanted to take care of me, of both of us. He’s also a sadist. How does a relationship borne out of so much pain survive or turn into anything more than what we had?” There was never much point hiding from her. She felt less like a fractured version of his own damaged psyche, and something closer to reality. </p>
<p>“Depends on how much of a masochist you consider yourself.” Beside him, she grabbed a beer that didn’t exist and gave him a sideways smirk. He smiled back, falling into the fantasy again.</p>
<p>“Jury’s out on how big.”</p>
<p>“What was that?”</p>
<p>Will blinked at the unfamiliar voice and Abigail disappeared as the man who had been staring at him before was suddenly sitting beside him. He had an open if unforgettable face; hair prematurely gray, but handsome. Bearded chin, trimmed with enough shape that he obviously cared about his appearance. Cigarette smoke clung to his clothes and nicotine stained the tips of his fingers. </p>
<p>“Only the crazy talk to themselves, you know.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, so I’ve heard.” </p>
<p>“Let me buy you another,” His accent was thoroughly midwestern, and he didn’t have the worn-in look of the locals. A passer-by, looking for entertainment for the night. Will read him like a book, read him so quick it would be better to put him back on the shelf, out of reach from his damaged hands. But then, Will had come here for one purpose. Hadn’t he come here to escape his own reality in the same way?</p>
<p>“Barely started this one,” Will said, twirling his bottle between his fingers. Maybe he didn’t look so awful in the dark lighting of the bar, or maybe the man was just desperate enough to see past the crazy that everyone else saw.</p>
<p>“Better get started then.”</p>
<p>And maybe Will had been rusty in these situations, but it didn’t take long. He let the man buy him a drink, and he drank it, and he kept his body language open and a fake smile on his face and they didn’t exchange names or numbers because it kept things deliberately mysterious, but when the man said he needed a cigarette break, Will followed him outside. </p>
<p>The man parked his car in a more conspicuous place than Will, nestled in the darkest part of the parking lot. The only light when Will sunk down to his knees was the flicker of the lighter as the man lit a cigarette. The last time Will had blown someone had been five years back in a deserted restroom, jeans damp at the knees, just trying to get himself out of his head. He’d spent years before doing the same, dirty shame soothed only by the fact he’d get on his knees for a woman too. The taste was sour, the scratch of denim beneath his jaw, fingers curling in the man's fly as he mouthed at the head, suckling along the length before he adjusted to take the lot into his mouth in one violent thrust. </p>
<p>Cigarette smoke was blooming, ash bouncing down over his shoulders as the hand at his nape clutched tight. He tried not to compare and tried not to think of doing this to anyone else. He focused on the pressure of the hard ground on his knees, on the drool pooling beneath his chin. More ash flicked over his shoulder and he grunted in distaste even as the cock hit the back of his throat.</p>
<p>“Your mouth,” the man said, fingers tight. Will closed his eyes when he pulled roughly away, a full mouth suddenly swallowing around nothing, He spat excess saliva onto the ground and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “God, I wanna fuck your ass.”</p>
<p>“If you want.” </p>
<p>The man stamped his cigarette to the ground and Will rubbed at his jaw, head spinning with panic and arousal. This was a bad idea, he thought. They were in a parking lot in the middle of Louisiana and he hadn’t been this brazen even as a hormonal teenager, or at the very least they’d kept it to the backseats. It didn’t stop his own hands from moving to unbuckle his pants, to shove them down and bending himself face down over the hood of the car. </p>
<p>He listened to the sound of a wallet opening, the appreciative crinkle of a condom ripped from foil as he spat onto his fingers and pushed them between his legs. He did not do this often enough to be taking it with little more than spit and a lightly lubricated condom, but he wasn’t doing this for the pleasure. He was doing it because he needed to fix his mindset, or force himself to fall lower than where he was currently stagnating. </p>
<p> Will didn’t resist as one hand pressed between his shoulder-blades, ass bared to the night air. Wet fingers pushed inside briefly to test before the latex feel of an eager cock bumping and trying to breach. He closed his eyes, deepened his breath and bore down to allow an easier access. The man slid in in three jagged thrusts and stayed there for a time. Hands moved between his legs, pushing them as far apart as his jeans would allow, and one hand stayed there, squeezing tight to the muscle. Enough to sting and bruise. Will leaned his forehead on his crossed arms, closing his eyes as the movement jolted him over the hood of the car.</p>
<p>(<i>Hannibal would’ve taken you to bed the moment you showed up with that cut of long pig. Could’ve kissed him and grabbed him hook, line and sinker. Could’ve taken him to bed, shown him what you learned as a Southern kid with an absent father. Could’ve been shy. Fake inexperience? Let him think he was taking something else from you? Maybe you could take from him. Make him bend and break.) </i> </p>
<p>Will couldn’t say it was <i>good.</i> Too dry and his prostate woefully ignored in this position, but he enjoyed the heavy weight at his neck, and the words he couldn’t quite hear, but that he knew to be filthy in their intent. He enjoyed the roughness, enough to worm a hand down, to jerk himself off irregularly to the thrusts into his body. </p>
<p>“So tight baby. God, yeah, you take it like a champ.” </p>
<p>
  <i> (Hannibal’s bedroom was blue. Will had seen it once, on one night he had stayed over in the guest bedroom. He would arrange Will onto his back, kiss his neck, pull the clothes from his body until he was naked. They’d be lit orange by the fireplace and the warm lighting overhead. Will would blink up, hide his intent in the shadows. Goad Hannibal further with his absolute passivity in the moment.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i> “Darling, we’ll take it slow, shall we? Peel you open one finger at a time until your thighs part and your body shows me exactly how relaxed it is.”) </i>
</p>
<p>He couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t fucking help but think about Hannibal. Hannibal who killed Abigail for punishment. Hannibal who killed Beverly. Who set Will’s mind on fire and sent him to prison. Who Will betrayed, who he left gutted and bleeding on his kitchen floor, nothing but spite and anguish and his own ghosts to keep him company. </p>
<p>A hand slid beneath his shirt, pulling him back up so that he fell into the body behind him. Will tried to squirm away, but the splayed palm rode wide up his abdomen, over the ridges of his scarred body. </p>
<p>“Damn boy, what happened to you?” The words were licked into the shell of his ear even as Will pushed the hand away. He squeezed tight to the solid cock in his ass, distracting the man, dropping his hand from Will’s stomach to pull at his hips again. He leant over the car, braced on his palms, elbows up by his ears as he fell back into his head.</p>
<p>
  <i> (Rich cotton against his back and bared on his bed, knees drawn up. Hannibal’s eyes would wander curiously as Will stared up at him, both predators in their own way. Will would try to hold back as Hannibal pushed in, accommodating the stretch of the monster inside. Making room as his legs hitched high; at the pressure and the relief of the body on top, holding Will close so that their hearts would sync in rhythm to one another. Calling him darling, whispering words in a language that Will could not understand. Hannibal wouldn’t use protection, would want Will to feel it, physically mark him on the inside.) </i>
</p>
<p>“Hannibal,” Will said, heat coiling tight, hand drawing tight until he came over his hand. Eyes fixed on the man that wasn’t there; the bedroom he wasn’t in and the intimacy he couldn’t feel. The tightness of his body almost pushed the man out, but Will felt a solid hand hit him square in the middle of his back, pressing between his shoulder-blades as he fucked into Will. As the man came, the brush of his beard was an irritant against the nape of his neck, his own legs trembling with thoughts. <i> (Should be clean-shaven, the words accented and soft. Hannibal would be gentle, so caught up in the emotion.) </i> </p>
<p>“Hannibal, huh? Ain’t he that cannibal?” the man was laughing, but Will squirmed away, panic suddenly hitting square in the middle of his chest. <i>You’re a damn fool, Graham. Damn fucking fool. </i></p>
<p>“Shut up,” Will said, pulling his jeans up and letting the ache settle in. He wished he had his beer, or maybe some mints to wash away the taste of precome. He patted the front of his jeans down until he felt for his keys. His car was across the parking lot. He didn’t have far to go. He’d got what he needed. More self-hatred, reality falling out the bottom, somewhere between the two.</p>
<p>“You wanna come back to my place? We can roleplay if that’s your thing.” Will heard the flicker of a flame, the inhale of breath. It prickled at the back of his neck and set his teeth on edge. “Look, we all have our vices. Don’t worry. I’d fuck my boss. You’d fuck a serial killer.”</p>
<p>Will didn’t know what he had done until he realised his blood was pumping in his ears and he’d slotted his keys between his fingers, curling them up into a fist. The punch landed heavily across the man’s cheek, who surprised, stumbled backwards. Will threw another one and another one, the shape of the man changing and twisting in front of Will’s eyes as he pummeled fists down, his own breath coming out in short aching puffs.</p>
<p>“Fucking psycho.” He deserved that and the right hook that caught beneath his nose. He rolled away, licking the blood that trickled from his nose, eyes watering in pain. He stumbled to his feet, knuckles slick with blood as he fumbled for his keys. He could hear insults being thrown at his back as he limped across the parking lot.</p>
<p>“You’re pathetic.” Abigail came to him, sprawled on the backseat, one of those psychology books she’d had back when she was still at the hospital resting on her stomach. </p>
<p>“Which part?” Will said, wiping his eyes. They’d swollen and he couldn’t stop the wetness from leaking even as his chest tightened. He scrunched his nose up and pressed either side of the bridge. It stung, but he didn’t think it broken. He was half certain he was going to throw up the flimsy contents of his stomach. His ass ached, unused to being prised apart and used without care put into it. He was going to have a panic attack, or die, or drive home in regret. </p>
<p>“Most of it,” she shrugged when he turned to look at her. “You said his name.”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>“You thought of him fucking you.”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Pathetic.”</p>
<p>“I know.”</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
Will woke up sore, but nothing that wasn’t solved with painkillers. He felt… clearer. An idiot for what he had done the night before, but something that he needed to do. His nose was a little swollen from the punch, but he got off lightly. He’d been a scrappy kid, learned to duck punches at an early age. That knowledge followed him through his more idiotic moments, including last night. He forced breakfast down, which was fruit and a yogurt that he didn’t remember buying but was still in date. He cooked for his dogs and watched them eat it, contemplating quietly.</p>
<p>Afterward, he wandered into the living room, still cluttered. Usually he sat beside his father’s chair, but now he stood as tall as he could, refusing to sink into his mind for comfort. </p>
<p>“You’re dead,” Will said to the emptiness. “I have to let you go.”</p>
<p>“Why?” Abigail asked softly. There was a catch in her voice, making her sound endlessly young.</p>
<p>“Because I’m not getting any better having you with me. I need to get better. I know where I can find you if I need to. After Hannibal, I felt like I fell. Like I fell from a cliff and I’ve been stuck dangling on a branch, too scared to sink further. Last night I sank further, I let go and—”</p>
<p>“But you didn’t let go of him.”</p>
<p>“No.” He pressed fingers to the side of his nose, flinching at the sharp pain. “But I can’t stagnate like this any longer. So I need you to leave.” </p>
<p>“But you’ll be all alone.”</p>
<p>“I already am, but I’ll be okay.” Abigail looked at him with her wide eyes, her hair hanging long and loose over her shoulders. She was still in her pajamas, too long in length, piling up over her bare feet. He watched her nod her head. She curved a small hand over her neck, where the blood was pooling. It trickled thick, red and violent between her fingers. He closed his eyes and waited until she’d gone before opening them again.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ****</p>
</div>Will still couldn’t face the half demolished bathroom, so he focused on everything else. He bought food that didn’t come from the freezer and forced himself to eat it until it became less of a chore and more of a routine. He sorted through his father’s living room. He opened drawers to find knives, fishhooks, string. He still visited his memory palace, but only to sit opposite Hannibal and stare at him. He couldn’t bring words out, couldn’t bring himself to sit beside Abigail on the grassy bank beside the river. One day it would be nice, but not yet.<p>In the evenings he would grill fish outside and eat it simple, fighting off the dogs who knew better than to beg. Sometimes he even sat on one of the benches outside <i>Barney’s</i> with Button in his lap, under the guise of socialising her. Sometimes Celie would find him, and she’d drag out her comic or her homework and talk his ear off about her little brother. With her father’s permission, sometimes they would walk the block together just before it got too dark. He’d let her hold Button’s leash.</p>
<p>“You know the stars?” he asked her. “My dad taught me about them when I was your age.”</p>
<p>“Not really.” She shook her head. “Do you have a favourite one, Will?”</p>
<p>No one had ever asked him that, and he hummed to himself, trying to think. “Sirius. The Dog Star. And the brightest. You can always spot it, no matter what. Even if you’re in the worst place.”</p>
<p>“That’s because you <i>really</i> like dogs, huh?”</p>
<p>He laughed along. “Something like that, yeah.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div>He was attempting to fix the broken wiring behind the old TV when a knock at the front door had him jolting, his dogs jumping from their sleep. Button’s teeth bared in a growl, but he shushed her calmly, picking her up off the ground. He opened the front door, unable to stop the dogs from spilling out.<p>“Hi there.” There was a middle-aged man on the porch. Faded cap pulled low, broad and heavyset. Identical to Jimmy, Dora’s husband opposite. Every man of a certain age in this place. “You’re Graham’s kid? I heard you were in town.”</p>
<p>“Right, yeah.” Will licked his lips, not able to meet the eyes of the man looking him up and down. He adjusted the irrational and twitchy Chihuahua in his arms and whistled for the dogs to come back in. They brushed past him in a hurry as Will tried to focus on the man in front of him. “You knew him?” </p>
<p>“A little.” Will nodded his head. “You got a beer, son?”</p>
<p>“Sure.”</p>
<p>Will led the man out through the small house to the back porch where he ordered calmness from the dogs and grabbed a beer for — “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”</p>
<p>“Ray.”</p>
<p>“Right.” Will took a seat beside him and felt the unease crackling the surface of his skin. “You knew my father?”</p>
<p>“Sure. We met out on the boats. He always kept to himself. I didn’t know he had kids, I would’a paid my respects sooner otherwise.”</p>
<p>It stung, and it shouldn’t have. Will knew it shouldn’t have because they’d never been close in the first place. “We weren’t close. I worked away,” Will said eventually, eyes down at the far end of the yard where Buster and Penny were taking shelter beneath a heavy tree. “I should’ve come back sooner, but I was busy.”</p>
<p>“I have his boat. Been keeping an eye on it, but now you’re here it’s yours.”</p>
<p>“I wondered where it was… I knew he must have one, but he was never big on paperwork. I couldn’t find any documentation for one.” </p>
<p>“Worked on it between jobs. He did a big favour up in the boatyard and got her for dirt cheap. She was in real awful shape, but she’s a pretty thing now. You into boats, kid?”</p>
<p>“I know my way around one,” Will said. He pressed the bottle of beer to his lips but didn’t drink. He’d been trying to cut back. “It’s been a while.”</p>
<p>He watched Ray fumble into his pocket, pulling out a key. It made sense. His father’s fishing gear was mostly in the living room, but there’d been no keys or boat. He’d retired from the boatyards he’d worked in all his life, but fishing had been the one thing he ever did for pleasure, for food. His dad had understood boats, just as Will understood people.</p>
<p>“You not got a family?”</p>
<p>“Dogs.”</p>
<p>“Not quite the same. I have three girls.” <i>Oh god, </i> Will thought, and waited for the inevitable invitation before Ray looked at him. “Guess that’s not really your thing.”</p>
<p>It rattled back and forth. He couldn’t work out if Ray was being friendly or wanted answers, but the longer he stuck around, the heavier Will’s chest felt and it got to where he wasn’t even faking enthusiasm anymore. He could hardly bring himself to care. He just didn’t. Ray left the keys beside Will and saw himself out. </p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>Will left all the dogs apart from Button at home. Winston’s wise eyes stared up at him, and he couldn’t resist leaning down to scratch behind his ears. The dog knew what was up, even if Will hadn’t quite brought himself round to the idea yet. He fussed over them, promised they could come next time, and watched them settle in their usual places before he saw himself out.</p>
<p>It was a solid forty-five minute ride out to where the boat was housed, and then a further fifteen minutes as he tried to find his bearings. He found her eventually, standing in the wet heat of summer, sweat pouring between his shoulder-blades. He twisted Button’s leash in his hands, moving her across the ports until he found what he was looking for.</p>
<p>She was a decent size for a private trawler. Dad must’ve worked hard on her. Why no one had tried to buy her off him, he wasn’t sure. Maybe Ray had kept her under a tight watch because unlike the house, she hadn’t fallen to dust and fade. A decent deck gave way to a cosy, rustic interior. Small rounded kitchen, fitted seats. He dropped Button down so she could investigate.</p>
<p>All the care that he had wanted and missed, that he hadn’t found in the house, he could see in the boat. Detail and hours of work, sourcing wood and furnishing. His father may have lived frugally at home, but nothing came before his boating. He’d always wanted to save up for his own, but this was beyond anything he’d have been able to afford.</p>
<p>Through the main deck and down the spiral staircase to the lower compartment, housed a double bed and minuscule shower. Two more beds built into the sides of the wooden panelling. Button followed him down, snuffling around as he wandered over to one bed. Resting on top of the bare mattress was a shabby, fur-worn teddy bear. Will had insisted on carrying it around for years, way past the appropriate age. A cheap thing, golden fur and plastic eyes that had come loose so many times Will had learned to stitch them back on himself. He used to pretend it had been a parting gift from his mother until his dad said he’d bought it at a gas station when Will was two and wouldn’t stop crying.</p>
<p>“She didn’t give you nothing but the hair on your head, son,” he’d said, and Will had kept quiet about the fantasy afterward.</p>
<p>A heat came to him at the idea of his father still having it, still holding onto it. He placed it on this boat, where nearly all of his love had gone into. Will took a seat on the double bed, hands wrapped over the toy, shushing Button when she yapped, scrabbling up from the ground and into his lap. He sat in the boat that his father had loved more than anything else and tried to rationalise his brain again.</p>
<p>She was a smooth ride. Dad had made sure of that. Will hadn’t depended on his father for anything since he left home, but for all the ways he had failed as a father, he knew how to look after a motor, knew how to bring her out into something glorious. Ray must have taken her out every so often; so she ran smooth, gliding across the lake.</p>
<p>Will hadn’t been out on a boat in such a long time. On those rare occasions he had gone home in the early years, they’d go out in a rental together to fish, but once he’d joined Quantico, he had not the time or inclination to do anything but tinker with the parts behind his old barn. Fly-fishing in the stream. It was… part of a routine he cultivated for his own peace of mind, what little he could find.</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>The second time he visited, he took all the dogs; let them pour onto the main deck, sniffing and investigating the new setting. He took her for a quick tour, not to fish, but to just feel himself on the water, on a boat that his father had loved. There was an itching anxiety, something telling him he was doing the wrong thing, always doing the wrong thing and even once he had moored, he sat hunched on the deck with his shirt open, scar bared for the world, he rushed to the stream in his mind.</p>
<p><i>You could use it to find him. Grab the dogs, sail the fuck out of this joint. You want to do that. Find him before anyone else. Before Jack. He’ll kill him. You have the chance to save him.</i> The words would have been Abigail’s once, in the time before he sent her away. Now it was his own voice, distant but persistent. He slapped his hands over his ears, trying to shake the words loose. He tilted his head up towards the sun, feeling it burn down over his chest as he slipped into his mind.</p>
<p>Will walked over the jagged grass, the dogs off in the distant. It was bright, not as hot as where he was physically, but he saw the feathers of his dogs’ tails disappearing up ahead as he moved toward the stream. There was a figure standing rooted in the middle of the stream, strong back to Will. His greying hair flicking up in the same way Will’s did when it got too long.</p>
<p>Will walked into the water, ignoring the waders sitting on the bank beside him. The heaviness of the water didn’t cling like it ought to, didn’t cool him down at all. His eyes were on his father, even if he couldn’t quite make out his face. It stayed shielded, the sun too bright and his hat too low to make out distinctive features.</p>
<p>Will stood beside him, man to man, but still feeling so wrong, so out of sorts about everything. A jumbled mess of a kid with too many emotions, with a father that didn’t know what to do. Will almost wanted to cry, sinking further into his mind, even as he bit his tongue so hard his mouth slipped in copper.</p>
<p>“Son,” his dad said eventually, voice rough with lack of use and barely audible over the constant wash of the stream. They stood together in the water behind Wolf Trap, twin lines in their hands. They weren’t far off the same height, but Will felt so much smaller, even in his imagination. “You’ve made a mess.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t mean to. It just—” The words faltered, heavy on his tongue. “I need some direction. I don’t know what to do.”</p>
<p>“You ever thought about doing something just because it makes you happy?”</p>
<p>“When I think about what makes me happy, I—” Will licked his lips, stared down at the water, but not really seeing. At his ankles he could feel weights, something bumping into him, trying to knock him from his feet. Trying to drag him down. “It’s wrong. On so many levels it’s just <i>wrong.” </i></p>
<p>“I just want you to be happy, kid. Maybe you should try it out sometime.”</p>
<p>“I did,” Will said. “I tried, and I lost.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know what else to tell you, son.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> **** </p>
</div>Will sank into the bathtub once he was back home. Washed the sweat and sun from his body, filled the water with bubbles so that the lingering bruises from his night pinned over the car remained hidden in the depths of the tub. He’d eaten light. He had waved at Dora when he parked up and saw her crossing the street. He thought about taking Button over to the restaurant to visit Celie, but he was worn out and hollowed from the day.<p>It was so much quieter without Abigail. His voice used only to talk to the dogs. He pushed his head beneath the water, holding onto his breath. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, slow and steady. He opened his eyes to the sting. The bubbles had cleared where his head was, and he stared up at the haziness of the bathroom. The white ceiling, the single lightbulb. Needed to buy a shade so it wouldn’t look so depressing. Needed to get a grip and retile the bathroom.</p>
<p>The left corner turned wavy beneath the water, something coming into view. The sounds of his dogs barking cut through even the deep soothing sounds of the water. Familiar even through the haze. At first he thought the antlered creature again, but the shape was wrong. Smooth hair, sharp angles, tall and looming. Something dipped into the water, fingers wrapping around his arm as they yanked him up, bursting free from the watery embrace.</p>
<p>Will’s lungs burned as breath returned, between the dark whorls of curls shielding his eyes, he blinked up at the man standing tall and bloody in his bathroom. The dogs barked in excitement at a familiar face beside Button, who yapped in aggression. Will tried to calm her, but his chest was heavy, and his tongue dry in his mouth.</p>
<p>“Will,” Hannibal said, alive and real and no figment of any imagination. He was almost certain. “How I’ve missed you.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for sticking with this :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Will stood in the bathroom for a long time, heart racing so much that it physically hurt. He pulled his clothes on when he caught his breath and fumbled through the door, clothes sticking to damp skin. Hannibal sat in his living room, in his father’s chair. His jaw was covered in more stubble than he had ever seen and his clothes were baggy; short in arm and length and clearly didn’t belong to him. His hair was longer than Will remembered, falling over a black eye. The left side of his face dark with what must be blood. He turned to Will with a pleasant smile, as if nothing much had changed between them. His knees crossed, his fingers laced.</p><p>“What the hell are you doing here?” Will said, holding onto Button in one arm to quiet her barking, a knife he grabbed from the kitchen in the other. </p><p>“Are you planning on inflicting damage with the dog or the knife?” Hannibal asked. The rest of the dogs, the utter betrayers, were sitting around Hannibal’s feet. The few times they had met the man, he had bought meat for them, fresh from Mason’s face, or as handmade sausage. Button’s fear came only in how she feared anyone that wasn’t Will. </p><p>“What are you doing here?”</p><p>“I had hoped that you would be the one to come to me, but I had envisioned this outcome as well.” Hannibal sat up in the chair. Will thought he looked older, the last pieces of his mask falling away. “Mostly I am here to make amends.”</p><p><i> “Make amends? </i> What planet are you on?” Will said, watching Hannibal, backing away when he stepped closer. To be in his presence after all this time had him swallowing nerves down, even as they caught in his throat. He held Button closer as she shook, a growl deep in her chest. “Everyone is looking for you.”</p><p>“They found me, but I escaped.” Will was expecting something else. He prompted Hannibal with a raise of his eyebrows. “They are following a trail across northern Italy right now. Of course it won’t take long for them to work out that I am not where they expected.”</p><p>“Did anyone see you arrive?” </p><p>“No. I made sure of it.”</p><p>“Alana knows where I am. Once they realise you aren’t where they think you are, they will come to me.”</p><p>Hannibal nodded his head. “Yes, I think so too. How is Alana?”</p><p>Will didn’t answer right away. Too much anger at himself, at Hannibal, at the joint effort of everyone involved in this disaster. He looked to the windows, but the drapes thankfully covered them. No one would be able to see in. “She’s changed.”</p><p>“Yes. We all have.”</p><p>Will looked down at Hannibal, watching how the fingers of one hand wrapped around the other wrist, adjusting his arm. “You’re hurt.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Let me help.” Will dropped Button down to the floor and held out his hand. Hannibal stared up at him for a few seconds, enough that Will almost retracted the offer before his hand slid into Will’s and he helped pull him up.</p><p>“I won’t bore you with the details of how I got here,” Hannibal said lightly, following Will into the kitchen. Will flicked on the lights, casting the room into harsh reality. His hair was drying over his forehead, his clothes stuck in awkward places where his skin was still damp. He still imagined he looked better than Hannibal. He could feel his nerves spiking through the thin surface of his skin. Every swallow seemed to burn.</p><p>“Take your jacket off. Your shirt if you can manage. You’re bleeding.” His dad had provided little in the way of home comforts, but there was a decent First Aid kit under the sink. Will washed his hands with dish soap, trying to reflect or understand, or deal with more upheaval. He wasn’t sure he could cope. He grabbed a half bottle of bourbon and two glasses. By the time he turned around, Hannibal had stripped the coat off and rolled the sleeve up, baring his left arm. The skin was rubbed raw, glazed red and wet. Fluffy from the jacket. Like he had taken a tumble over asphalt at a high speed.</p><p>Will eyed it as he poured two healthy swigs into the glasses, passing one to Hannibal. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”</p><p>“There was a fight.” He watched Hannibal bring the drink to his lips and swallow it down. No complaints, even if it wasn’t top shelf quality. “He lost, but I didn’t come out unscathed.”</p><p>“I’m guessing he lost more than the clothes you stole from him.”</p><p>“Are we to bicker like this all night, Will?” Hannibal drained the glass, far quicker than Will had seen him do before. His lips puckered out, his overly-stubbled jaw tense. Will wanted to dwell on his pain, but he needed… wanted to put his hands to use, to distract.</p><p>“Is anything broken?” he asked instead, fingers lightly tracing over Hannibal's bicep. He was real. He was here. He had come back, and Will wasn’t sure whether to be grateful for that.</p><p>“No. Bruised ribs, but they will heal.” Will nodded his head, but focused his attention down on Hannibal’s raw arm. He cleaned the skin, wrapped it in thick gauze, pinning it tight. Hannibal remained quiet; a statue, more physical now than before, in Will’s haunted memory palace of dead ghosts.</p><p>“Did you come here to kill me?” he asked eventually, pulling away just enough so that they were no longer touching. Something brushed his legs, and he looked down to see Button pawing at him. He picked her up, held her close, dropping eye contact when he noticed Hannibal looking down at her. “To finish the job you started?”</p><p>“Your death will not come at the cost of your passivity, Will,” Hannibal said. “If you have something that you would like to say, perhaps you ought to say it.”</p><p>“Perhaps I’m afraid that if I start, something worse will come out.”</p><p>“I did not come here to kill you,” Hannibal said, almost softly. “I would’ve drowned you in the bath, otherwise.”</p><p>“You left—” he started to say and then backed out because he didn’t like the position it put him in, how exposed his vulnerability felt. “You left me with nothing but ghosts.”</p><p>“Is it the abandonment that troubled you more than anything else?” </p><p>“Stop. Please stop. I don’t know what to say. I’m scared I’ll say something I’ll regret.”</p><p>“Such as?”</p><p>“I forgive you.” There was silence, and Will was glad for it. Hannibal didn’t bother pressing, and Will refused to expand. He stroked between Button’s ears and he drank down his bourbon until only a little remained.</p><p>“My antics have made the news. I’m sure even down here in Louisiana. Are you truly so surprised to see me?” At least he was poking from a different angle. Will laughed, even if he didn’t find it funny. </p><p>“I make a habit of not looking too closely at the news.” No phone, no internet access. After the burning humiliation upon discovering Bedelia’s role, he had taken to avoiding the newspaper section all together. “Last I head Dr. Du Maurier was missing?”</p><p>“Bedelia played a role just as we all have. I would say she has played her hand better than most, even if I wished for things differently.”</p><p>“How do you mean?”</p><p>“She was not ready to involve herself, however willing she first appeared. She saw only what she wished to see and no further. Still, she has spun her way out of trouble once more. I look forward to hearing exactly what tale she spins to the police. It will not be the truth.”</p><p>“You didn’t kill her?”</p><p>“Her time will come,” Hannibal said lightly, as if to soothe Will’s disappointment. He looked down at his arm, wrapped up tight and neat. Will watched as he inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering closed. He must be in a lot of pain.</p><p>“How did you find me?”</p><p>“I knew you would either come and look for me or throw yourself so far back into your own skull you retreated out the other side. I knew of this place. I just made sure that they would not follow me before I came looking.” Both that he knew of this place and had taken precautions not to get caught spiked unease in Will’s chest. That they would never be free of one another was a guarantee. Hannibal had made sure. “Loneliness is all you’ve had—”</p><p>“I want to talk about Abigail.”</p><p>“—Perhaps a line drawn in the sand.”</p><p>“Fine. You killed Abigail because I lied to you. She didn’t deserve to die.” Will’s fingers curled up over his knees, his eyes replaying the scene over and over. She had gone to Hannibal so willingly. So willing, even when she must’ve known what he would do. </p><p>“No.” Hannibal bowed his head in surprise agreement. “Did Nicholas Boyle deserve his fate?”</p><p>“You didn’t kill her because of Nicholas Boyle. You killed her to get back at me.”</p><p>“Yes.” There was no shame in Hannibal’s voice, and Will sought the aching comfort even as he wanted to fight him with anger. He wondered if he would ever feel that way. “I sought a bond with you by creating a family with Abigail. That doesn’t mean I didn’t grow to care for her. Ultimately, her sacrifice would come to this. I believe her ending would always come at the hands of a father.”</p><p>Will couldn’t do it. He couldn’t think about Abigail when he had only just let her go. He stood up, jolting Button from his lap and grabbed both of their glasses, tossing the remains into the sink. He stared down at his hands curved over the edges of the counter, counted to ten as he tried to breathe deep and slow. He turned quick, so that he was facing Hannibal, staring down at the dirty state of his outfit.</p><p>“Your clothes are bloody and ruined. You need to wear something else.” Will noticed the way Hannibal’s face changed incrementally, the slight freeze of his brow before he smoothed it.</p><p>“Yes. I suppose I do.”</p><p>He led Hannibal back toward the small bathroom, wishing he had it in him to just have it out. Whatever scenarios had played out inside his mind, he’d hardly imagined their next meeting would have consisted of this.</p><p>“Leave the clothes on the floor. I’ll destroy them,” Will said. He had some wood that needed incinerating. He’d burn it all tomorrow. He left Hannibal in the bathroom with the door open, the dogs milling around aside from Button, who followed Will up the small staircase.</p><p>His own clothes wouldn’t fit Hannibal, but the drawers in the bedroom still held the folded remains of his father’s clothing. He pulled out utility style pants, a thin green t-shirt; a printed logo of a boat company over the chest. Will had barely seen Hannibal outside of his suits, always so impeccably dressed. The only time he’d seen him in disarray had been that last night; the look of utter betrayal on his face before… <i> Will shook his head of the thoughts. He’d thought about it enough. </i></p><p>Will dropped the clothes outside the open bathroom door without looking in. Instead, he tried to hide from his thoughts by standing outside in the moonlight, the dogs dancing in the backyard, Button staying close and nervous at his feet. He stared up at the stars, squeezed his fingers under his armpits and hesitantly thought about what his plans could be next. <i> What would he do? What could he do? What was he going to do about Hannibal?</i></p><p>“If he doesn’t kill me and I don’t kill him, where does that leave us?” Will asked, clawing his way back into his memory palace, searching for Abigail as he threw open the doors to Hannibal’s house, finding her there, rotting and cold, eyes withered away to nothing.</p><p>Hannibal appeared in good spirits once Will came in from the cold and found him standing in the kitchen. It did nothing to stop the uncomfortable itch Will had at the sight of the man dressed in his father’s clothes. It confused his brain. Hannibal had taken care of him just as he had debilitated him. Had his father done the same? It wasn’t quite apathy that had raised him, but a simple lack of understanding over how to raise a child that he hadn’t prepared for. They had both loved him. They had both caused irrevocable damage.</p><p>“I’ll go to the store tomorrow, get you something better suited,” Will said. He chose his words carefully, aware that he didn’t want to insinuate anything that gave away his opinions. <i> What the fuck are your opinions? </i> What he was going to do? Once Jack realised the trail was cold in Europe, he would know that Hannibal had come back for Will. A few days, and then he’d have to go. Will would help him escape; it was all he could think to do.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Will’s dad didn’t have a sofa, otherwise Will would have slept on that. Instead, he led Hannibal up to the bedroom and pointed at the small double bed in the centre of the room. Most nights, Will shared it with Button.</p><p>“Take the bed,” Will said.</p><p>Hannibal’s head tilted, curious as he always was. “Where are you to sleep, Will?”</p><p>“I have to keep watch,” Will said, turning to look through the drapes hanging in the windows. He pulled open the furthest edge, but it was dark and quiet. Hannibal had evaded for years, and he wasn’t likely to get himself caught now. Hannibal pulled off his pants, which were too baggy and a little short. Will watched him fold them neatly before resting them on the empty nightstand. For a moment their eyes met, before Will blinked and looked away.</p><p>He listened to the sound of Hannibal settling into the bed, the creak of the uneven wood, the box springs from the second-hand mattress aching beneath his weight. The sheets would smell like him, and something lit up in his chest as the idea of Hannibal knowing that, breathing it in, tainting his own skin with the scent of Will.</p><p>Adrenaline petered out into exhaustion as Will slid down the wall, feet no longer able to support him as reality sunk all the way. His knees drawn up to rest his face on them and he tried to breathe, long and slow, to ride out the panic. For once the dogs snored on softly, even Button, curled up close to Will, her nose buried by her tail.</p><p>Even the creaking of the bed couldn’t stop him from opening his eyes, the scent and heat of Hannibal getting closer. He stirred when he felt one arm slide around his back, the other tucking behind his knees. He drew Will up in an effortless movement -<i> used to carrying deadweight-</i> before he dropped him down onto the bed.</p><p>“You’re in shock. It’s okay,” Hannibal said, as Will’s eyes peeled open. Hannibal slid beneath the covers, but he didn’t move to bring Will beneath them. Will couldn’t bring himself to move, frozen solid on top of the bedsheets.</p><p>“Dressed you up like my father,” Will said, tongue as heavy as his panic was strong, “he’s dead.”</p><p>“I’m not your father, Will,” Hannibal said, large hand dry and warm on the side of his face. “Go to sleep.”</p><p>Will didn’t sleep, not for a long time, but his body calmed at the feel of Hannibal’s hand warm on the side of his face. Someone beside him, outside of his head, outside of his dogs. The heaviness in his bones pulled him toward sleep, exhaustion weighing him down.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Will was certain he awoke to the sensation of fingers stroking slowly down his spine, but as it was, he found himself curled up on his side, barely an inch away from the side of Hannibal’s chest. Already he could hear his little street coming to life through the window. It was surreal having him so close. He’d imagined him for months. Killed him in his mind. Had rough sex with strange men in parking lots and pretended it was Hannibal. Everything related to the man, and he was finally here and he didn’t know what to do about it. </p><p>“Does it hurt?” He asked, sitting up and blinking, speaking before he even planned to. At his sudden awkwardness, Button hopped up onto the bed and he opened a palm towards her, letting her lick affectionately. Hannibal appeared to consider the little dog. One look toward his face showed that he had been up a great while. Perhaps unwilling to disturb Will from his sleep. He’d rather kill him when he was awake.</p><p>“Does what hurt?”</p><p>“Your arm. Your ribs. Everything?. <i>Everything </i> was a loaded word, Will didn’t expand. “Does it hurt?”</p><p>“Not so much. An itch more than anything else, but nothing I cannot handle.”</p><p>“You’ve hurt worse?”</p><p>“I believe we both have.” Will was in the same clothes he’d thrown on the previous night. A badly buttoned shirt and shorts, the buttons had loosened low, but still covered where his scar hid. He adjusted, picking up Button, leaving the room before he said anything he’d regret. </p><p>Will dressed quietly in the bathroom and brushed his teeth slow as he stared at his reflection. He rolled his tongue over his teeth afterward and stared past himself at the unfinished walls behind him. Something needed to be done, and quick.</p><p>“I don’t have much in for breakfast,” Will said, setting the percolator up for coffee when he heard Hannibal approach. The dogs brushed past Will to greet him, and he turned around to glance at the man, still dressed up in his father’s clothes. It disgusted him, that he found such comfort at the sight.</p><p>“You’ve lost weight,” Hannibal said, but without the judgmental tone that would have carried from anyone else.</p><p>“I’ve been eating better than I was. I think I’ve been getting better.” He smiled at Hannibal, although he knew it wasn’t pretty. “I’m angry and I’m confused. I don’t know what else to say.”</p><p>“You haven’t chosen violence with me.”</p><p>“I think we’re past that stage.” The <i>for now</i> remained unspoken. Will poured coffee and offered Hannibal toast because the yogurt was out of date. He offered painkillers as well, but he declined. They sat at the small table, not speaking and drinking coffee, the dogs milling around, waiting to be fed. </p><p>“I need to go out for a little while,” Will said eventually. “I need you to do something for me.”</p><p>“What do you need me to do?”</p><p>“Tile the bathroom. I can’t. I don’t know why I can’t. Do you know how to do it?” </p><p>“In theory, and I am a quick learner.” Something changed in Hannibal’s voice, tension settling. “It may not be my finest work.”</p><p>“Better than what it is now.” Will drained his coffee and stood up, rinsing the mug in the sink before leaving it to drain. “I need to feed the dogs and buy you some clothes. Stay inside the house and start on the tiling. Don’t go anywhere.” <i>Don’t leave. Don’t leave. Don’t kill anyone, but please don’t leave me.</i></p><p>He took Button with him, partly because her erratic nature was the one thing he couldn’t trust and she was small enough to fit in the cart. He drove three Targets away, wore a hat pulled down low, suddenly trying to be careful. It took longer than he realised, or maybe he was allowing his resistance to creep in. He walked the aisles, wondered how long it had been since Hannibal had worn clothes <i> off the rack.</i>  He wondered about his life in Europe. What did he do? Who did he kill? Had he missed Will enough to come back or was this just another circus act? Will grabbed boxy button-downs in shades of blue and grey. He liked Hannibal in dark clothes, liked to see the truth of the man shine out. He grabbed semi casual shorts, chinos and a belt. A straw hat, wide brimmed. Sunglasses.</p><p>He upped his supply of painkillers and ointment for burns. Fresh gauze and bandages. Maybe they’d need more at some point, if their anger peaked again. Will walked the aisles to kill time, but he didn’t know what else to buy. What else could he buy? He was out sooner than anticipated and back on the road again, cool air blowing through the fan, as he peeled up the highway, along the bayou, back to his dead father’s house.</p><p>“You shouldn’t fear him,” Will told Button, watching her blond fur move in the fake breeze. “He’s a bad man, but he’s polite. He wouldn’t hurt you. Me on the other hand… I’m not sure if he’s done hurting me, or the other way around. We’ll have to figure it out.”</p><p>Hannibal was in the bathroom when Will walked back into the house. The first line of tiles above the tub sat neat and green, spacers intricately placed between each sea-foam tile. Will felt a knot of anxiety tug free at the sight.</p><p>“Is this what you were hoping for?” Hannibal asked, and Will didn’t fully understand him, but he saw the relief when their eyes caught and Hannibal’s shoulders softened just slightly. Will looked down. The walls of his father’s house suddenly felt like a cocoon, the two of them lost to the inside.</p><p>“Yes, thank you.”</p><p>He left Hannibal to it, leaving the bag of new clothes at his feet. He burned the bloodied clothes with some old papers and wood in the backyard. Then he sat in the kitchen undisturbed, a tall glass of water in front of him as he closed his eyes. He’d slept beside him last night, slept <i>because</i> of him last night. Hannibal was back and he couldn’t escape it, wasn’t sure that he even wanted to. Will knew he wasn’t exactly awake, nor was he asleep, but nothing came at him in this consciousness, and the only thing that ever disturbed him was the dogs, who trotted by every so often. Occasionally he heard the tile cutter screeching to action. He presumed Hannibal had plenty of use with similar equipment. Will knew what they had found in his basement.</p><p>By the time he opened his eyes properly, late afternoon struck, and it bathed the walls of the kitchen with a warm glow. He stood up and rubbed his eyes, stretched his legs and left to find Hannibal again. Hannibal was sitting in his father’s chair with the curtains drawn, behaving himself apparently. The house still smelled of paint, the sweet dryness of sawdust from the sanded floors. Hannibal had a book in his hand, something old and dusty pulled down from his father’s shelves.</p><p>“I’ve not been able to do this room,” Will said as he walked into the room. He crouched down, letting the dogs at him, a slobber of wet noses and tongues at his cheeks and neck until he batted them away with gentle hands. “We weren’t even close.”</p><p>“The similarities between here and your house in Wolf Trap are rather obvious.”</p><p>“I’m sure he’d have something to say about that,” Will said with a laugh, thinking of his father so distant to him, even in the stream of his memory palace. “How is the bathroom?”</p><p>“I won’t be here long enough to finish the job, but I have made a start.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>Will watched Hannibal stand, now dressed in the plain clothes Will had picked out for him. Almost muted, too dull on a man that wore extravagance as well as he did. Will was just glad to see him out of his father’s clothes. It all made Will twitchy, made him think himself fucked up in all the ways he couldn’t bear thinking about.</p><p>As Hannibal’s mouth opened to speak, there was a knock at the door. Will jolted, the dogs barked, and he panicked briefly. He looked through the window, pressing himself flat to the wall as he did so. No cruise car. No car at all. Must be a neighbour. He wiped his hands on his thighs and stood up, walking to the door. Hannibal knew to keep quiet.</p><p>Celia was standing there, smiling brightly in the late afternoon sun. In her hands was a jug of something bright and yellow. She squealed in delight as the dogs attacked good naturally, handing the jug to Will before she bent down to pet them. </p><p>“I made lemonade with Markus and my daddy. He said I should bring you some for letting me play with the dogs.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Will said, watching her father stand at the bottom of the drive, a toddler clutching tight to his hand. He waved toward Will, who gestured back similarly. He didn’t like to think too much on what the man must think of him. “I have to go now, Celia, but we’ll walk the dogs together soon.” </p><p>She looked disappointed for a moment that he wasn’t offering a walk around the block with Button, but she quickly changed her mind when her dad whistled to her. Will watched her skip down his driveway, hair caught in two puffs that bounced happily with her movement. </p><p>Hannibal walked into the kitchen as Will poured the lemonade into two tall glasses, adding ice from his freezer. The thick stubble around his neck was still alarming. Will decided that he didn't like it, that it didn’t go with the clothes he had purchased or the memories he had attached to him.</p><p>“A gift from a friend?” Hannibal asked, eyes down on the drink as Will handed it over to him. </p><p>“She found Button,” Will said, taking a sip. The drink was tart, not too sweet, and a relief against his parched throat. “She <i>named </i>Button. Sweet kid.”</p><p>“Yes, I am sure.” Hannibal nodded his head. He stepped closer to Will, who moved away. His lips pursed, although he appeared mostly amused. “Are we to move in circles constantly, Will?”</p><p>Will held the glass against his mouth, tapping his bottom teeth against the lip before he placed it down on the table. He ran his hands over his face and sighed heavily. “What are you doing here? Why did you come for me? You left me to die, remember? I betrayed your trust, so you tried to split me in half. Wasn’t it enough to—”</p><p>“Shall I finish the sentence for you?” Hannibal asked. He dragged a chair tucked to the kitchen table and took a seat, his long legs seemingly out of place in light trousers. He spoke as if he had all the time in the world. “You have forgiven me for Abigail. You told me as much last night so the resentment falls elsewhere.”</p><p>“I don’t know why you would bother to come find me when I was so easy to replace.” There it was. Or half of it. Petty, perhaps, but he could fall to pettiness when his life was more or less in pieces. </p><p>“You once spoke of abandonment requiring expectation. Your father abandoned you throughout your entire childhood. You’ve lived with a gaping hole where a fatherly bond should have built, and yet in your desperation you came back to him. Seeking comfort even when you knew that there was none to be found in the empty shell of the house he lived in.”</p><p>“It was easier to come back to him like this. With faded memories of childhood, he was just there. There were moments where he tried, where I tried, but it just—”</p><p>“You felt as if I had abandoned you just as he did. I was still an anchor for you, even when you felt nothing but rage towards me. I helped you see the truth about yourself, opened up the capacity for so much more inside you, if only you would trust yourself.” Will could deny, <i>should deny it,</i> but he’d spent months alone analysing and reanalyzing the situation. The things he did, the things Hannibal did. How they brought the worst out of each other time and time again.</p><p>“I’m not you, Hannibal, and I’m not your little pet. You bought something out of me, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to do what you want. It means nothing because you tried to kill me.”</p><p>“Is that what I did?” Hannibal took a measured swill of his lemonade. “We cannot force ourselves to fit the shapes around us. Bedelia was no better a fit for my time in Florence than you would have been unwilling.”</p><p>“I wasn’t unwilling. I was—” Will couldn’t finish it because he was never sure what he was. Hannibal knew this. Or knew this now. “I’d have gone if you’d have forced me.”</p><p>“I do not wish you by my side forcefully.”</p><p>“Not… if you’d decided, I would’ve stood by it.” Will hoped it made sense. “I used to follow my dad everywhere. When the work dried up I’d come home from school, see my belongings packed into one meagre box, put in the back of the car before we moved on again. It was numbing. All I had to do was go to school, not freak anyone out too much, and do my chores. It helped. Helped my mind.”</p><p>Hannibal watched him, watched Will talk himself into tricky corners so close to saying things he didn’t mean. He didn’t want a relationship where Hannibal had dominance over him; he didn’t want to be <i>forced</i> but he was at ease in a dynamic that… that was. What? Being taken care of like a child? Living with a man that would make the big decisions for them. The thought was ill-fitting and distasteful in his mouth.</p><p>“I never thought I had them, but maybe I do,” Will said. He took a seat and folded his head down into his lap, sucking in deep, slow breaths. Button nipped at the hem of his pants until he lifted her up into his lap.</p><p>“What do you have?”</p><p>“Do I have to say it?” Will said, gritting it out. “Daddy issues.”</p><p>“Yes. I was aware early on. A motherless son, raised by an ambivalent father. You were bound to—”</p><p>“Have issues?” Will finished tightly, watching the small smile peel over Hannibal’s lips. “If we lay it out don’t say you don’t like the control. Your control of Abigail, considering us her fathers when we barely knew each other or her. My incarceration, my release. All utterly controlled by you. Even after… when I had agency, I still went to you.” </p><p>“I enjoy taking care of those who I love.” </p><p>A silence. Will had been waiting, wondering, knowing deep down that Hannibal’s feelings were no more platonic than his own had been. That it caught them up in the mess of their own doing. Emotional affairs taking precedence over the ones that involved Alana and Margot. </p><p>He couldn’t say it back. Tried, but couldn’t find the words and the moment passed and he finished his lemonade before standing, moving toward the window and staring out at the backyard.</p><p>“I uh… let me have a look at the bathroom.” He dropped Button down again, listening to the skittering of her paws on the hard floor before he left the room. Hannibal had made excellent progress in the bathroom. He was right. It wouldn’t be finished before he would leave, but he’d set in the groundwork. If he left, and Will stayed, he could finish it. Follow the guidelines set out. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>His father’s shaving kit had sat in the bathroom cabinet gathering dust since long before his death, but Will grabbed it for something to do, unzipping it in the bathroom sink, the scent of sandalwood and faded cologne bursting through. His father had favoured a straight razor, and he saw the sleek silver thing, heavy in his hand. In the bag was a small box of razor blades and he twisted open the razor, coaxed the dull blade, a few dark bristles still touching the edges. With quick fingers, he replaced the blade, closing the wings and resting it heavily in his hands.</p><p>As he walked back into the kitchen, Hannibal was sitting with his back to Will. His hair was a little longer than it had been before, softer without the heavy amount of wax he combed through it. The orange light of the late evening poured through the window, the dogs sprawled half out on the decking. Domestic, almost. Made more of the knots inside soften.</p><p>“You’re not a straight razor man,” Hannibal said, eyes down on the silver. “And as I recall, the last time we were in a kitchen and one of us was holding a blade, things went differently.”</p><p>“Are you sorry?” When Will caught his gaze, he saw nothing but the heat of Hannibal’s dark eyes on him; the intensity burning down. He knew the answer already.</p><p>“If I wanted you dead, you would be dead. You are well aware of that, Will.”</p><p>“Abigail didn’t need to die for your cause. She didn’t need to die. I forgive you for it, but it doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten, or that I don’t care.”</p><p>Hannibal remained staring at Will. “What do you plan to do with that razor, Will?”</p><p>“Shave you.” He twirled the blade between his middle and index finger, not foolish enough to place it on the table. He moved to the kitchen sink, filling a plastic mixing bowl with warm water. Once full, he placed it on the table beside Hannibal, who was still watching him. “I don’t plan on killing you, Dr. Lecter. Not today, at least.”</p><p>He left the room briefly, heading back into the bathroom and finding an old can of shaving lotion in the bathroom cabinet. Will shook it in his hand and felt the weight increase as the foam mixed. By the time he stepped back into the kitchen, Hannibal had moved, only so much as to roll his sleeves up. He sat sideways to the open back door, shadowing half his face. </p><p>“I suppose I must hold still unless I wish for you to cut my throat,” Hannibal said. “I’m willing to bleed a little for your cause.”</p><p>“I’ve seen your injuries. You’ve bled enough,” Will said, pulling his chair up, so it was almost touching Hannibal’s. To make room he had to sit at the very edge, legs parted so that they rested on the outside of Hannibal’s knees. Hannibal’s feet sliding between the centre part of Will’s chair. </p><p>“A lesson in control then,” Hannibal said, grabbing the cloth and wetting his stubbled face. There were still cuts on his face, and a dark bruise over his left cheekbone from the apparent fight. Will pressed the nozzle of the foam into the palm of his hand until a white mountain piled up. He rolled it between his palms before Hannibal leaned forward, gifting his face. Will touched gently, smothering the lower half of Lecter’s face with the foam, coating it heavily. Their eyes caught and Will felt trapped in the gaze, but he couldn’t free himself, couldn’t stop the kick-start of his heart. He wiped his hands on the towel, drying them off as he grabbed the razor.</p><p>Hannibal’s hands lifted and then moved until they rested on Will’s thighs. The touch of him burning through his jeans. They slid until his thumbs rested in the crease of Will’s hips and then stopped moving. Will froze, waiting for the next move, but Hannibal remained focused and in place.</p><p>“Just keeping my hands away from any trouble,” Hannibal said, slightly muffled and affected by the foam coating his face. Will stared at him, blade in hand, before he pressed one hand firm to the crown of Hannibal's head, tilting his jaw upwards.</p><p>Half of Hannibal’s face appeared bathed in the orange-pink of the twilight and Will thought him beautiful, more so than any other time, in all those perfectly tailored suits. They didn’t speak. Will glided the razor across Hannibal’s skin, catching coarse hairs, sliding through the foam. With every stroke, his fingers touched smooth skin afterward as he cleaned the razor in the bowl, over and over. Hannibal’s hands stayed on his hips, his thumbs lifting to touch bare skin beneath the hem of his shirt. Smooth circles rolling over and over, as Will coaxed Hannibal’s face in different angles until he was smooth, the masculine scent of the shaving foam in the air. </p><p>Once finished, he swirled the razor a final time in the dirtied water and then rested it down against the table with a thud. He grabbed the towel to dry his hands before he pressed it to Hannibal’s face. He held it against freshly shaved skin as Hannibal’s hands moved up, beneath Will’s thin shirt, against his waist and pulled him in close.</p><p>Hannibal was a strong man, Will had never forgotten that, but it made his stomach flip when he pulled Will easily up and off the chair he was hovering on and up over his legs. Maybe he just allowed himself to go as easily. Will opened his mouth to say something. With his eyes fixed down on the smooth skin revealed, Hannibal now looked so much like his old self, even with the soft hair falling forward. He shouldn’t. They wouldn’t. Hannibal’s hands were solid, squeezing tight enough that Will wondered if he would bruise. </p><p>And then they kissed. It was a rough thing, with no precision. Will fisted his hands first in Hannibal’s collar and twisted it in his grip, before his mouth opened and he shifted his face to fit better against Hannibal’s. He opened wider and felt the wet slide of Hannibal’s tongue slip inside. He squeezed his legs together, his knees pressing either side of the seat’s backrest. </p><p>Will’s hands slid upwards, grabbing onto Hannibal’s hair, pulling on the threads until he heard the man hiss. Will felt his body responding to Hannibal’s wandering hands over his hips, one hand sliding upwards beneath the shirt. A thumbnail traced over gently along the length of his scar and Will bit down deliberately hard on Hannibal’s lip until he split it open, licking the welling blood clean.</p><p>He rolled Hannibal’s face into the curve of his neck as he caught his breath, aware that he was sitting over the man that had disembowelled him, who had replaced him so easily. Who had left for Europe but had come back. He could feel the heated length of Hannibal’s arousal against his left thigh. He caught his breath to the scraping of teeth against his throat, of a hand sliding down to cup his ass. He rolled his head down to rest against the top of Hannibal’s head, trying to calm his body and his mind. The thoughts were flying, his panic was rising, and he was melting. Then there was a knock at the door, and he jumped. </p><p>“Stay here,” Will said, stumbling from Hannibal’s lap. Will could only protect Hannibal so long as he did as he was told. He was probably noticeably debauched, but he pulled at his shirt until it was straight and moved to the front of the house, tripping over Button, picking her up when she squeaked. </p><p>Jill was at the door when he opened it; hair a fresh orange and in a vest that matched. She smiled at him brightly and he tried to imitate it, while avoiding eye contact. He prayed she didn’t want to step in, that she wouldn’t walk in and see Hannibal Lecter sitting at his table. </p><p>“Will, hi. Hello Button.” Her finger waggled in front of the dog’s face, who growled only slightly. “I just thought I’d come let you know we’re having another party tomorrow night and you’re welcome. Bring some fish to grill and we’d be happy to have you.”</p><p>“Even after last time?” Will said. Most of the neighbourhood had kept their distance after the party.</p><p>“It’s all forgotten. You come at any time after seven-thirty. Just listen for the noise and y’all hear us.”</p><p>“I’ll be there.” It was a lie, but he wasn’t all that bothered about sounding convincing. </p><p>Will dropped Button down to the floor once he had seen Jill off. She’d always been so welcoming to him, from that first moment he’d walked into her store in a daze. If she knew what he was, what he would do to keep Hannibal safe. He couldn’t quite imagine how his dead father would react, not only to Will kissing a man, but kissing the man that had almost killed him.</p><p>Hannibal was no longer sitting where Will had left him, but standing in the kitchen looking through the window. The sun had set so low now, so that the orange glow turned to a moody blue. The bowl rinsed and draining on the side, the razor in his hand.</p><p>“Would you like to take this?” Hannibal said, turning towards him. Will studied him, trusted him, somehow. Hannibal was here because he had nowhere else. Had no-one else apart from Will. Maybe he was the consolation. He tried to picture Abigail telling him to <i>man up </i> but she wouldn’t appear. It was his own voice feeding the spite.</p><p>“Are you going to kill me?”</p><p>“Only if I thought it was my only choice, and maybe only in reciprocation,” Hannibal said. “Are you planning to kill me, Will?”</p><p>“I’ve had enough of murder,” Will said, eyes drawn down to his dogs. They were so much easier to look at. “You kissed me.”</p><p>“And you kissed me.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Will looked over at him. “Because you were curious?”</p><p>“Do you need more than implication, Will? Because I will speak the truth now, if that’s what you need from me.”</p><p>“Now you’ve run out of options?” He felt the hazy panic rise, starting as a pulsing heartbeat before turning to nausea.  </p><p>“I forgave you your betrayal, Will, the moment that I punished you. I thought replacing your companionship would be easy, but as I have already said, Dr. Du Maurier was not a suitable replacement.”</p><p>“We’re saying so many words without saying a goddamn thing,” Will said, hands on his hips, rolling his neck up to stare at the ceiling, to hide his stinging eyes. He felt so wounded and he was tired of it.</p><p>“I’ve come to associate our most honest conversations over dinner. Would you like me to cook for you?” Hannibal asked. He sounded so at ease as he moved toward the refrigerator. Will composed himself, or at the very least wiped his eyes on the back of his hand before he reached out, grabbing Hannibal’s wrist as he passed.</p><p>“No.” Hannibal stilled, turning stiff, preparing for rejection. Rejection meant nothing, Will had realised, if experience was anything to go by. It would only further Hannibal’s dedication toward him. His obsession with Will had always felt cocooning rather than smothering, or it had in the moment Will had reflected. “Let me cook for you.”</p><p>“Something from your past?”</p><p>“Yes.” Will could do gumbo. “We’re in my past right now. Might as well taste like it.”</p><p>He moved to the refrigerator, opening the door. He had crawfish; he had rice and beans and veggies and spices in the cupboard that were in date. He had beef on the bottom shelf. He had… two slim packets of something wrapped in brown wax paper, tied with string. Placed there, he presumed, by Hannibal the night before. </p><p><i>Who?</i>  Will wanted to ask, but he supposed it didn’t matter. Hannibal would not stop, and Will would not stop him. They’d feasted once on the meat of another, Will’s eyes no longer blinded. This wasn’t any different. He pulled one packet towards him and turned, meeting Hannibal’s eyes. There was expectation, a little apprehension hidden deep, though Will picked up on it in the slight flickering on his face. Unsheathed from his person suit, Hannibal was an easier man to read.</p><p>“Would you like to chop?” Will asked after clearing his throat. Hannibal nodded.</p><p>Will’s dad had taught him to cook gumbo. His version usually simmered low for the whole day, but they didn’t have the time for that, so he settled on a basic stew instead. Will wasn’t averse to cutting corners. Hannibal took the backseat. He sat at the table, reading one of Will’s father’s old books as the dogs puttered in and out, noses picking up the scents coming from the stovetop. Will had a sudden flashback to Wolf Trap and walking in on Mason carving his own face off to his dogs, who ate it up like nothing. </p><p>“Do I know them?” Will asked eventually. He finally closed the back door once the dogs were in, fed and settled. It made everything seem a little more intimate. He sat a careful distance away from Hannibal, watching as he read, watching as his eyes lifted from the page. </p><p>“No.” No reason to lie, Will knew, and suspected Hannibal wouldn’t dare. He nodded his head, grateful at least that he wouldn’t be supping on any former friends. He wasn’t ready for that just yet. “You burned his clothes earlier.”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>One day he wanted to cook his dad’s gumbo for Hannibal. Will was almost certain you’d get a better, more authentic one down the sports bar on a Friday night, but it was the one his father had taught him, the one his father had been taught. And it was the one he would like to teach Hannibal. Maybe, if it was at all possible.</p><p>They sat not opposite each other, but on the two closest edges to each other. Will could feel the warmth of Hannibal’s legs against his own, could feel heat radiating from him. He always cooked too much, but he left the other portions to cool on the hob. </p><p>“A pity you never cooked this for me before,” Hannibal said between mouthfuls. </p><p>“I cooked little in Virginia. No point when it’s just me.”</p><p>“You cooked for the dogs.”</p><p>“I was always taught you cook for your family,” Will said. A pause while he chewed meat that fell apart on his tongue. Could be mistaken for pork once layered in the spices. “My dad died on the porch out front. I should’ve visited. I never did. Too busy wrapping my head around <i>everything.</i> No time for family.”</p><p>“One day you must tell me more about him.”</p><p>“Do I need to? He’s here in every room of the house. He’s in this dish. He’s in the way I think; in the way you’ve analysed my thoughts. He’s in my memory palace fishing.”</p><p>“Beside you in the stream?”</p><p>Will nodded. Not always, but on some days when he ventured out he was there, the gravel of his voice, the slur of his vowels. It’s not so much that Will missed him, but that he missed that innocence of youth, where the shield of protection kept his mind from going too dark. An empty stomach and a cold bed meant his mind focused on those things instead of everything else.</p><p>There was a pleasure that coiled in Will’s gut at watching Hannibal eat what he had cooked, heightened because Hannibal had provided the <i>meat.</i> A shared deliverance for each other. An honesty that they hadn’t provided each other before. Hannibal finished before Will, but seemed satisfied to sit back in his chair and gaze at him. </p><p>“Your sister is dead, right? Did you eat her?” Will asked, half wondering how much Hannibal would reveal. Her death was as tightly coiled to his heart as anything. As personal as his cannibalism. Will couldn’t see how one would exist without the other.</p><p>“Yes,” Hannibal answered, little power in his voice. “But I didn’t kill her.”</p><p>“Thank you for telling me,” Will answered, hoping for more one day. </p><p>Dessert was fruit and cream because Will had both things already in. He chopped while Hannibal whipped the cream, Button yapping at the sound of the whisk. Will tsked her, but she ignored until Charlie barked once, cowering her to silence. </p><p>They ate from small glass bowls, Will picked out watermelon, sucking the fruit dry. His forearm pressed up against Hannibal’s. </p><p>“The warmth suits you,” Hannibal said, a wide smile stretched on his face when Will turned to look at him. He remembered how it felt, the weight of himself over Hannibal’s lap only a few hours back. Hands sliding over skin, tongues wet in hot mouths. “The sun has marked your skin with a warmth that was missing in Virginia.”</p><p>“Didn’t get much sun in prison either,” Will countered, forcing a smile onto his face before something darker spiked. “It’s not the only thing that has marked me.”</p><p>“May I see?” Hannibal asked, and Will paused, pulsing a strawberry against his teeth before he nodded. He pushed his chair away from the table, turning so he was fully facing Hannibal. His fingers moved to the slim buttons on his shirt, peeling it open until his chest was bared, the long red scar curling over his abdomen. </p><p>“How does it make you feel?”</p><p>“Like my outside finally matches the inside.”</p><p>“You feel broken?”</p><p>“It isn’t a feeling. I know I am,” Will said. </p><p>“A neat scar. Good handiwork,” Hannibal said, reaching out to trace the edge of his mark with the cool tip of the spoon’s handle. Will tensed under the touch. “What appears broken to some can be beautiful to others.”</p><p>“Maybe.” Will’s thoughts floated away as Hannibal curled his finger into his bowl of fruit and cream. He smeared the cream over Will’s raised skin until pink was hidden by a strip of sticky white. </p><p>Hannibal moved quickly, falling down to his knees in front of Will. His fingers, sticky and warm, curled over Will’s bare hips, pulling him forward. Will watched with a shudder rolling through his body as Hannibal’s warm, fruit-sweetened tongue curled out, tracing and chasing the sweet cream, sucking at it, over the ridge of the scar. </p><p>Will felt himself hardening in his pants at the sensation. The man that had cut him in two, so close, with teeth nibbling over where he’d been stitched back together. He kissed and sucked until no cream remained, but a selection of red marks shone over the raised mark.</p><p>“You’ve marked me like a belonging,” Will said, stroking his hands through Hannibal’s soft hair, so much nicer now without the gel. Not that he’d felt it back then, but it lent a touch of vulnerability to the man. He was human. </p><p>“A prize not a belonging,” Hannibal said, laying his head down over Will’s lap.</p><p>“You can’t stay here. You’ll get caught.”</p><p>“Jack will find you soon enough. Alana won’t hide you forever,” Hannibal said, Will could feel how he had stiffened in Will’s lap. “And then he will find me. Are you going to give me up?”</p><p>Will paused, mind made up however hesitant he felt in reality. This game would never end, not without a little bloodshed. Hannibal had come back for him. As a belonging or as a prize, he wanted Will with him, and Will, he—</p><p>“Where will we go?”</p><p>“South America for the time being, I think.” Hannibal softened at Will’s acceptance. There was an awful lot of water beneath their bridge and it was uneven and creaking, ready to break at any moment, but there was nothing for Will anywhere else, nowhere else he had ever really belonged. He could not stay in this house, which had never been his, and he couldn’t stay when doing so would put so many at risk. Little Celia and her dad and brother, Jill, Jim and Dora. These people would be safe without him, they would roll on and remain unchanged, fold him into another sweet anecdote to the next fool that tried to make a home of the town. </p><p>“The dogs are coming.”</p><p>“You have eight.”</p><p>“It’s all of us or none,” Will said, rolling his nails over Hannibal’s scalp, wrenching him up until their eyes met. “Understand?”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div>They would fight. It would be physical and nasty because right now Will knew they were in a place that was still bruised from the trauma of their previous parting. But his tendency for violence was there, and he couldn’t hide it. Couldn’t hide from Hannibal at least, and he never had. Killing when it felt just made him feel powerful and feeling powerful felt good. But he wasn’t <i> there </i> yet. Wouldn’t kill because he wanted to, wouldn’t kill for the sake of it. <i> You’d eat them, though, if Hannibal fed them to you. </i><p>Will thought about this as he climbed into the bed. Button looked ready to pounce and join him, but he shook his head at her as Hannibal slid in beside him. She yapped once, but turned her back to him instead, settling by the side of his bed. He curled up on his side, back to Hannibal, as he tried to process his thoughts once more.</p><p>“If you eat me, don’t share me around. Savour me. Gorge yourself on my meat, turn my bones into a broth, something simple. Don’t carve me into something fantastical and plate me up as a meal for others. Just for you,” Will said, wondering if Hannibal understood what he meant. It was so hard to pick up on things with him, he got the intricacies but not the intimacies. “I want to sustain you in the way I think your sister did.”</p><p>“I have no intention of sharing you.” Hannibal’s hands were rough, pulling Will onto his back, the side of his body curled around him. </p><p>“You need to give me a couple of days to sort things out,” Will said, changing the subject when the intensity of Hannibal’s gaze became too much. “I have some money.”</p><p>“I have more,” Hannibal said, “more than enough to sustain us, to keep us hidden. To get us to where we need to be.”</p><p>“Okay,” Will said, uneasy, but maybe it was better to go with the current. There was a safety he felt now, a safety in the possession, in the ease to give up and give over to the man that had torn him in two and kissed where he’d been stitched back together. He closed his eyes, aware of Hannibal’s gaze still on him. “Were you intimate with her?”</p><p>“Are we talking of Bedelia again?” Hannibal asked, his arm over Will’s waist, fingers bent at the hip, his lips somewhere below Will’s jaw. </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Yes. Once.” </p><p>Will’s eyes opened. He half wanted to imagine, half didn’t. He wanted to know everything and nothing. “To keep up appearances?”</p><p>“Because we were both lonely and trying to find an anchor in the lie we created together.”</p><p>“Okay.” The stinging in his chest was not okay. Will had never considered himself a jealous person until he met Hannibal, yet now he burned at the idea of what he had done, and who he had done. </p><p>“As I moved inside her, I thought of you.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t feel like a woman,” Will reminded him, ignoring how heat ignited inside at the idea, the image. He could feel the heat of Hannibal against him, the length of his cock half-hard against his thigh. <i> What are we doing? </i></p><p>“Not quite.” Hannibal’s hand on his hip moved, stroking over his stomach. It was too soon, but not soon enough. They’d only kissed for the first time hours ago, Will had only decided once Hannibal had fallen to his knees. </p><p>But he was the one that guided Hannibal’s hand lower, sliding it into the shorts he’d worn to bed. Long fingers sliding over dark hair, curling over the length of will’s cock. Will shuddered. His last few experiences with intimacy had been brief; Margot, the man from the bar. They’d got what they wanted from Will. He had got what he’d wanted from them.</p><p>Kissing made things feel real. He didn’t have to decipher meaning or think about words, or what Hannibal meant. He tasted like the mouthwash he had swilled around his mouth before joining Will in the bed. Hannibal’s tongue was instant in his mouth, forcing its way inside as if any second Will would refuse entry. He moved his hand up to hold Hannibal behind his neck, bringing him down closer. It was a clash of teeth, the taste of copper as Will reopened Hannibal’s cut lip. </p><p>There had never been a mention of this before. It was there, lingering between them, thick in the air. Hannibal’s want for him, his mind and his body, Will knew that. As they broke apart, Hannibal’s hand that had slipped into his shorts moved lower, thumb riding Will’s taint, rubbing firm circles. </p><p>“Want you,” Will said, when their lips broke apart. Hannibal’s hand lifted from Will’s shorts, helping push them down his body. They came off easily, as did Will’s t-shirt. He dropped it to the side of the bed before rolling briefly to open the nightstand, fumbling for the lubricant that had sat unopened ever since he’d purchased it.</p><p>“Are you okay to—” Hannibal said, when Will handed him the small tube. He remained fully clothed, his eyes drawing easy consideration down Will’s body.</p><p>“I’ve been with men,” Will said, watching the way Hannibal tried to hide his disappointment. He laughed at the absurdity. “We don’t have to fuck, but I want to feel you.”</p><p>He helped Hannibal from his clothes until he was revealed inch by inch. So much taut muscle, aged, and covered in coarse hair that tickled beneath Will’s wandering and damp palms. Arm still bandaged from the night before. </p><p>“Do you not feel any of it?” Will asked.</p><p>“My tolerance to physical pain has always been higher than most,” he said. Then his lips were on the side of Will’s jaw, sucking a bruise that would mark. “Oh, Will.”</p><p>Will used the lubricant to dampen his hand and then their cocks. Hannibal was large and uncut and he liked the feel against his hip, drizzling precome, letting it pool against his hot skin. He lifted his hips, fit his hand around Hannibal’s cock, the slip of his foreskin was unusual but Will craved it, arousal taking over his thoughts as he pressed his own cock against the length of Hannibal’s sliding them together.</p><p>“Is this your father’s bed, Will?” Hannibal asked. He looked pleased with himself, pink spots high on the angles of his cheeks. </p><p>“His bedroom, not his bed. Don’t make it weird,” Will said. His fingers gripped once against Hannibal’s thick cock before he moved his hand, sliding it up Hannibal’s chest instead. “Your hands are bigger. You do it.”</p><p>Hannibal didn’t need asking twice. Will angled his hips, sliding his legs up around Hannibal’s waist as the other man slid one arm beneath Will’s neck, the other hand wrapping over their lube-slick and drizzling cocks. They moved together like that, on the bed that creaked too much. Hannibal kissed him, his lips, his nose, the side of his jaw until Will squirmed, hands wrapped over his shoulders, holding him close. </p><p>“You thought about this a lot?” Will asked, rolling his hips up, feeling brave now that he could see the effect he was having on Hannibal. The way his moans caught desperate and wet in his throat; the way his teeth caught rough on the side of Will’s neck. “When did you first want to fuck me? When you shoved a tube down my throat? When I showed up to <i> resume my therapy.” </i></p><p>“When I first met you in Jack’s office,” he said casually. “Perhaps I would have bent you over the desk in your old classroom, would have avoided the issue of eye contact all together.” Will clenched involuntarily at the idea, biting on his bottom lip, riding his cock against the fat length of Hannibal’s. He moved a hand down, clutching at what Hannibal couldn’t grip. </p><p>“I’d have let you, you know,” Will said, cupping Hannibal’s face in his filthy hands. His hair caught in his eyes, wet with sweat. It tickled against the tip of Will’s nose as Hannibal growled, as Will felt the familiar tightening in his stomach. “You’re a fucking monster. My monster.”</p><p>Hannibal looked savage as Will fell apart. His body shook as he no longer held back, as Will came damp and wet between them, quicker than he’d have liked. He held on tight to Hannibal, ankles hooked, hands in his hair, slurring words of encouragement as his orgasm petered out, still so desperate to feel Hannibal against him.</p><p>He’d barely recovered, though his eyes opened wide as Hannibal lost it. His face buried in Will’s neck, his voice a crackling husk as he groaned and whispered into his skin, entire body shaking. Will’s legs ached from their position over his hips, but nothing satisfied him quite as much as knowing that Bedelia, that Alana, and anyone else that had ever had Hannibal had never had him like that. Never allowed himself to lose control quite like this.</p><p>They broke apart, sticky and wet, but only enough for Hannibal to disappear for a few moments before reappearing with a damp cloth. He wiped himself down and then moved to caress the damp cloth over Will. His bandages had come undone, probably by Will’s fingers clawing at him, but he sat still as Will redressed the wounds, taking the time to stroke his fingers up and down the length of his undamaged skin. It was nice to feel him.</p><p>“A little unexpected,” Hannibal said, as Will pushed him down onto the bed again and moved against him. Such a change from the night before, Will blamed it on a sated body. “I didn’t expect this to happen.”</p><p>“Don’t lie.”</p><p>“Not like this. Not for a long time,” Hannibal corrected. “I was never sure on your own feelings.”</p><p>“Neither was I.” Will closed his eyes, forehead pressed to Hannibal’s shoulder. He embraced the affection while it lasted.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Will woke up first. Face to the window. Behind him Hannibal slept still, his arm over Will’s stomach, safe like a spoon. Will’s naked ass nested into the heat of his lap. His head rested on top of Hannibal’s outstretched arm, as his eyes focused he could see the pale pink scar in the centre of his wrist. Will sighed, wanted nothing more than to fall back asleep, but he could hear the distant shake of collars, dogs scratching and getting antsy. </p><p>Hannibal, he presumed, would be a light sleeper, but he didn’t stir when Will turned in his arms to face him. This was not a love affair, and it wouldn’t be easy. There was too much beneath the bridge for him. He could hear Abigail in the back of his head, in the open garden of his memory palace, sitting on a patch of grass, resting on her elbows beside him. <i> You can hardly back out now. </i></p><p>“Shut up,” he mouthed, backing away from his imagination and pushing Hannibal’s hair back from his face. He looked a little younger in his sleep, the deep lines by his eyes smoothed out. Maybe not young, but freer.</p><p>His first thought was how easy it would be to grab his knife resting on the nightstand and draw it over Hannibal’s throat. Kill him like he killed Abigail, feel the warm spill of blood over his wrists and be done with everything else. Hannibal’s eyes blinked open, and the thoughts melted away.</p><p>“Good morning,” He said, accent thicker when buried beneath the layers of sleep. He made a discontented noise when the bed dipped slightly and Button appeared. Will laughed as she playfully nipped at his ear and stood on his chest. “Dogs don’t belong on the bed, Will.”</p><p>“I’ll be the judge of that,” Will said, but he encouraged her to get down and she did. They wouldn’t have long before the dogs would want them up properly. “Everyone in this town thinks I’m insane. Alana still thinks I’m crazy, I could tell when I saw her. She looked at me like she did when I drew the clock for her.” </p><p>“You’re not crazy, Will.” Hannibal’s tongue swiped over his bottom lip and he rolled onto his back with a heavy sigh. He looked so undone. Will remembered how he had looked with his hair falling into his eyes, pressing Will down into the mattress. The spark of arousal made the apprehension fall away.</p><p>“I don’t think I am, either. I think I just make bad choices.”</p><p>“Do you consider last night to be in poor choice?”</p><p>“Not yet, but don’t make me regret it.”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>It was a dream. It felt like a dream as Will showered to the smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen. They ate the leftover fruit salad that was admittedly a little wilted. Hannibal teased him for the shirts he wore, used to being the audacious one between them, but the teasing felt pleasant. Maybe they were pretending. He didn’t know. Right now, he didn’t particularly care.</p><p>Hannibal said he would finish up in the bathroom, but that they would need to prepare to leave soon. Will wondered how he knew, but didn’t ask. He wanted it to be as it was with his father, where he just came home one day to news that they were moving. He walked into town, looked at the familiar faces and wondered how long it would be until they forgot about him. People smiled at him, and he smiled back. He even waved to Dora when he spotted her leaving the bakery. She said she would see him at Jill’s party and he nodded in agreement.</p><p>By the time he was back at the house, the dogs were wild with excitement, noses trying to poke into the bag. Hannibal was covered in dust from cutting the tiles, surrounded by the dogs puttering in and out of the bathroom, following his every move. Will thought he looked beautiful and then looked away at the revelation.</p><p>“We need to leave,” he said, looking at him midway through installing the third row of tiles. “I have… there are people here that think they care about me, or the version of me they know. I need to protect them by leaving. My dad has a boat — I can hide us on the boat. There’s no paperwork for it. It’ll be safe for a while.”</p><p>At his feet Button started yapping, pawing at Will until he picked her up, dropping the bag of pastries he’d picked up at the bakery. He held the dog close, thought briefly for a moment whether he could leave her with Celia as a parting gift. But Button was his, as much as all his others. The thought made his chest ache.</p><p>Hannibal stood to his full height, brushing the dust from his knees once he saw the state of them. “If you come with me now, you must know that I will never allow you to leave.”</p><p>“Like a hostage?”</p><p>“Not a hostage, no.” The implication was clear in the unspoken. Will nodded his head, suddenly uneasy. He wanted to retreat back into his head, but there was nothing awaiting him there but ghosts.</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>Will had fish in the freezer. He packed a cooler with ice and placed the fish inside as Hannibal spoke on a burner to someone in a language that Will wasn’t familiar with.  He pulled the old cardboard box he had found with his meagre childhood possessions. He wrapped his old book of stars in newspaper and string and took it over to <i> Barney’s. </i>  He left it with Celia’s father, told him he was leaving town for a few days, but he wanted her to have it. He drove to Jill’s house, knowing she would be at work, and placed the cooler on her doorstep with a note saying he couldn’t make the party. </p><p>By the time he was back at the house, Hannibal had the dogs packed in their crates in the back of the truck as Will had a last look around the house. All he saw was his own grief poured into the sanded and varnished floorboards, the walls of the hallway too yellow in his own desperation for happiness. The spices from last night’s casserole still lingered in the kitchen. </p><p>When Jack found this place, they would find Hannibal’s prints everywhere. All over the (mostly) tiled bathroom. They’d find his semen on the bedsheets upstairs. Will’s too. He wondered what the neighbours would say. He wondered about Celia, and hoped she remembered him as something better than reality.</p><p>They drove through the main road, over the rusted bridge passing the bayou. In his mind, he could hear his father’s voice, distant like it was in a far off room. As a kid, huddled up in his lap as he gruffly explained the stars to him, standing side by side in the stream, together but not really. Always with some barrier.</p><p>His eyes burned as they drove toward the Interstate. His father was gone, had gone long before Will had come back. His house was just the house that he had died in. It didn’t matter that Will had tried to make it something more. Maybe it would belong to someone else one day. Maybe they would tear it down and Will’s anguished hard work would have been for nothing.</p><p>Button insisted on sitting in the front, and as it was, she sat on Hannibal’s lap, licking Will’s arm every time he reached over.</p><p>“One day you’re going to take me to your home,” Will said. “You’re going to tell me things that I need to know. So I can understand you in how you understand me.”</p><p>“I cannot go home, Will. Never.” </p><p>“We share rooms in our memory palace,” he tried again. “Take me there. Show me what’s behind the doors. Mischa… your parents. If I’m here with you, I want to be here with all of you.”</p><p>There was silence for a long time, enough that Will wondered whether Hannibal had moved past pondering to ignorance. </p><p>“I’m unsure I could face revisiting some aspects of my past. I’ve closed it off for so long.” Hannibal’s voice finally petered through, though muted. Will watched his profile, trying for any sign that the vulnerability was a trap, something to pull him in deeper. He didn’t think so. </p><p>“Well, I’ll be there beside you.” He focused on turning off, pulling off in the direction toward the boat. They could stay there for a while, until things settled, until Hannibal could move them on. As he slowed the car to the junction, he reached his hand out until their fingers met and he squeezed tight, smiling and looking away as he felt Hannibal squeeze back.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading this experimental thing. It was weirdly cathartic to write lol</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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